


Amor Magnus Doctor Est

by chamel



Series: Love Is A Great Teacher [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Academia, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Professors, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chicago (City), Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Epistolary, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Illya POV, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Mutual Pining, Napoleon and Illya are classics professors, Napoleon pov, New York City, POV Outsider, Rivalry, Slow Burn, academic conferences, actually Academic Rivals to Friends to Lovers, and apparently has a lot of feelings about that, the author is going up for tenure this year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:01:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 50,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26562577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamel/pseuds/chamel
Summary: “Look,” Solo tries again, “this little feud, or whatever, it’s stupid, right? Fuck all these people and their thirst for drama.” He gestures blindly behind him, and Illya can’t help but notice a few of their gawkers looking away, chastised. “Isn’t it time to move beyond all that?”Gaby is looking between them incredulously, clearly waiting for Illya’s response and expecting it to be a vehementfuck off. But the thing is, he has a point, doesn’t he? It’s not like Illya’s been blameless in their war. He has as much metaphorical blood on his hands as Solo does, and honestly it’s getting tiring. They have a lot in common, which is pretty much the problem, but that shouldn’t mean they’re destined to be mortal enemies. Even in academia.(Napoleon and Illya might disagree on pretty much everything, but with looming tenure decisions at their respective universities, the common ground they find leads to more than just an unexpected camaraderie.)
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo, Napoleon Solo & Gaby Teller, past Napoleon Solo/Victoria Vinciguerra
Series: Love Is A Great Teacher [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2098173
Comments: 193
Kudos: 210





	1. SCS Conference, San Francisco, January

**Author's Note:**

> Hi All! Welcome to my first long-form AU. This story has completely taken over my life. Five of eight parts are already written (clocking in right now at 25k and counting), but I couldn't resist starting to post already. I'll be updating weekly on Sundays.
> 
> As it says in the tags, I'm actually going up for tenure this year myself and apparently needed to work some things out. I'm not in Classics, and I've kind of used my own field as a framework for the story, so I apologize if anything's not quite right. Some of the translations of the Latin quotes at the beginning will be a little loose, but I did manage to put my years of Latin to good use I think.
> 
> If you're one of my Mandalorian readers and popped in here wondering where tf the rest of my other story is, it's coming, I promise. But my muse is being a bit of a bitch about this right now, sorry.

_Odero si potero; si non, invitus amabo_  
(I will hate you if I can; if not, I will love you in spite of myself)  
—Ovid

Illya hears him before he sees him.

It’s that manufactured, fake laugh more than anything. How do people get taken in by that? He knows that when he turns the corner he’ll see him standing there like he’s holding court, surrounded by a gaggle of doe-eyed students who apparently can’t get enough of it. They’ll be hanging on his every word as if he were God’s gift to classics.

He can tell the moment that Gaby hears him, too, because her shoulders tense up and a snarl curls onto her lips. It’s almost an involuntary reaction with her, he thinks. He doesn’t really know their history—Gaby refuses to talk about it, and Illya hasn’t really asked—but obviously something had gone very wrong. Illya can remember seeing them together when they were all in grad school, part of that cadre of grad students that always hung out together and drank heavily late into the night then didn’t show up the next day until the afternoon sessions.

That had never been Illya’s scene. Sure, he’d been sucked into the vortex a few times by members of his own cohort, but he’d always woke up with a massive hangover, too many regrets, and not enough memories about the night before. He much preferred turning in at a reasonable hour and actually seeing the morning sessions instead of dozing in the back.

“Ugh, can we go a different direction,” Gaby mutters next to him, dragging the heels of her work boots against the carpet.

Today she’s kicking around the conference in torn jeans and a rumpled plaid button-down. It’s the first day, and everyone seems to dress with purpose, to say who they are. Gaby’s clothes say ‘I’m not interested in your professional conceit, I’m a field tech and I get my hands dirty and I don’t have to answer to any of your bullshit.’ Tonight she’ll change into a chic designer dress for the opening reception, because there is no in between with her. Illya finds it utterly endearing. Illya’s clothes, of course, don’t really change throughout the conference. The day of his talk he’ll wear a tie, but otherwise he likes his blazers and slacks. Tidy but not fussy, just like Illya.

“It’s the only way to the coffee,” Illya points out.

It earns him an exasperated groan. The shitty conference hotel coffee may hardly be worth the trouble, but it is _free_ , so he knows that will win out above all. Even though they aren’t grad students anymore, some of the same impulses still linger. Gaby folds her arms across her chest and picks up the pace again, steering them around the corner like a woman on a mission.

The thing is, Napoleon Solo is, well, objectively attractive. One might even say _classically_ good-looking, if one was, for instance, a young, impressionable, and occasionally overwrought grad student. If possible, the man has only gotten more handsome in the last ten years, which really is categorically unfair. Even now, as they turn the corner to see the scene that Illya expected, he feels his eye drawn to the broad shoulders, the swoop of dark hair trying to escape his styling gel, the strong jaw, the dimples surrounding that fake smile.

Shit. He’s been thinking far too much about the past today. And Gaby has noticed, judging by the sharp elbow he receives in his side. He frowns at her, but she only gives him a withering glare.

“I’ve seen that look before,” she accuses.

“What look? There’s no look.”

“He’s an asshole, Illya.”  
  
He can’t help but roll his eyes at her. “You think _I_ don’t know that?”

Gaby’s expression softens slightly, and Illya almost wishes it hadn’t. He doesn’t need hers or anyone else’s pity. “C’mon, coffee,” she says, and he’s glad the topic has been dropped.

As they pass with as wide a berth as possible, Illya accidentally catches Solo’s glance out of the corner of his eye, because of course he had to look at the man. Somehow, standing in the center of attention, Solo manages to direct a secret, knowing smile his way. It’s not a friendly smile, but its not _not_ a friendly smile, either, and Illya has no idea what to make of it. He clenches his jaw and keeps moving, trying not to imagine that he can feel Solo’s gaze boring into the back of his head.

* * *

The hotel bar is always crowded after the welcome reception, and tonight is no different. Illya knows they only have a table because Gaby intimidated some poor students into fleeing, but he’s not complaining. It’s a booth in a back corner that gives the optimal benefits of privacy and a good view of the rest of the bar. They’ve collected a few others—a friend of Illya’s from his undergrad days in Russia who’s now at UCL, one of his colleagues that Illya has met once or twice, one of Gaby’s grad school pals who now works in archaeological mitigation—and it’s easy for Illya to sip his beer and enjoy the simple camaraderie. His talk isn't for a couple more days, so he can afford to have one too many tonight and kick back.

The night wears on and the bar thins slightly, and Illya finds himself listening to Gaby as she snarkily comments on people they’ve seen throughout the day. The rest of their table is gone and Illya has finished his most recent beer, so he’s just about to call it a night when a shadow falls over their table.

“What do _you_ want?” Gaby spits immediately, before Illya has even looked up to see who it is.

Solo’s presence is, quite frankly, shocking. They have barely spoken two words to each other in the past three years, and the whole bar knows it. Illya is acutely aware that a hush has fallen, as if people are waiting for a replay of the shouting match they had in Seattle. They probably think they’re going to be witness to one of those stories that’s passed around conferences for years to come—“oh, you were there when Solo and Kuryakin—?!”

Illya frowns at both the thought and the man standing in front of him.

“I brought a peace offering,” Solo says, that grating fake smile on his face. He gestures with the three glasses clutched in his hands.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Gaby retorts, not pacified in the slightest.

Napoleon chuckles, like it was a joke, and sits down in the chair at the end of the table that had been vacated by one of their previous companions. He slides a tumbler of clear liquid to Illya and another to Gaby, keeping the brown liquor for himself. “Can’t a guy buy a couple of drinks for some colleagues without having an ulterior motive?”  
  
“No,” Illya answers brusquely.

“I’m just trying to be friendly, Peril.”

Illya hums and narrows his eyes. He always hated that nickname, ever since Solo bestowed it upon him the first time they had a difference of opinion. _‘Oh, here comes the Red Peril,’_ Solo had laughed after Illya’s talk in which he’d proceded to tear apart Solo’s own work. As if it were still the fucking Cold War. Illya’s own attempt at retribution—something as stereotypically American as he could think of at the time—had never really had the same sting; Solo had at least pretended that he had no problem with being called Cowboy. In the end it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like either of them had much of a chance to use them before they stopped speaking altogether.

“Look,” Solo tries again, “this little feud, or whatever, it’s stupid, right? Fuck all these people and their thirst for drama.” He gestures blindly behind him, and Illya can’t help but notice a few of their gawkers looking away, chastised. “Isn’t it time to move beyond all that?”

Gaby is looking between them incredulously, clearly waiting for Illya’s response and expecting it to be a vehement _fuck off_. But the thing is, he has a point, doesn’t he? It’s not like Illya’s been blameless in their war. He has as much metaphorical blood on his hands as Solo does, and honestly it’s getting tiring. They have a lot in common, which is pretty much the problem, but that shouldn’t mean they’re destined to be mortal enemies. Even in academia.

Illya grabs the drink Napoleon slid in front of him and lifts it in a silent toast. A second later, Solo’s lips curl into a small smile—a real one, this time—and he lifts his own in response.

There’s a rattle across from him as Gaby snatches her tumbler off the table violently, still glaring at Solo. She downs it in one shot and drops it, then pushes herself to standing in the booth. “I’ll be civil, but only because _he_ is apparently in a forgiving mood,” she says with a nod to Illya. “I’m not sticking around, though. Thanks for the drink.”

With that she storms off, heels clicking on the marble floor, leaving a slightly bewildered bar in her wake. For not the first time today, Illya wonders what happened to lead to such bad blood between them, but he shrugs it off. Not his business.

“So, Cowboy,” Illya prompts, talking half into the tumbler of vodka, “how is your meeting going?”  
  
Solo grins at the nickname and takes the opportunity to slide into the empty side of the booth vacated by Gaby. “Well, you know, first day. Good to see everyone. Old friends. Old enemies. Old frenemies. And you?”

Illya can’t quite fight back a snort of laughter at that. “Same. Isn’t your talk in the morning session tomorrow?”

“I’m flattered you noticed, Peril. It is, in fact, at 8:30, god help me.”

“So why are you still out at midnight?”

Solo shrugs nonchalantly. “Ah, I can never sleep that well before them anyway.”  
  
“Really?” Illya frowns, brow furrowing. Napoleon Solo, getting nervous before a talk? It didn’t seem possible. The man was a natural speaker.

“Yeah, well, gotta make a good impression,” Solo replies. He huffs out a small laugh as he stares down into his drink, and Illya thinks he’s never quite seen him look so uncertain. “Last couple of meetings to make a splash before, well, you know.”

He does. Both of them will be going up for tenure the following academic year. Illya knows their respective universities have similar standards, one of which was the nebulously-defined demonstration of preeminence in the field. He wouldn’t have thought Solo would have to worry about that, though. Solo’s recent book had garnered enough press that even random members of the general public knew who he was. He’d gone on Colbert and bantered with the man himself about homoeroticism in the Illiad, for God’s sake.

“Surely you have nothing to worry about, no?” he says, giving voice to these thoughts.

“Still working on a major external grant,” Solo says, somewhat miserably, and Illya knows the feeling. When he’d landed one the previous year for his fieldwork it had been a huge weight from his shoulders. Solo gives a little shake of his head, as if to chase the thought away, and it dislodges a lock of hair that comes to curl down over his forehead. “What about you?” he asks after he takes a large mouthful of his liquor. “You must be a shoo-in.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he admits. He spins the tumbler of vodka on the table in front of him, listening to the sound of the glass on the wood, and turns a wry grin at Solo. “I think people only know who I am because of our feud, and apparently we just ended it.”

The look that crosses Solo’s face is somewhere between shock and outrage, and Illya would say he’s laying it on a little thick except it doesn’t quite seem faked. “Oh, come on, that’s not true. You— you had that National Geographic article!”

“Years ago, and not much since.”

“What, they expect you to be like that dinosaur guy there? Another Indiana Jones or some shit?”

He doesn’t know if it’s three beers followed by a vodka—which is almost gone—or something else, but Illya laughs loudly at that. Loud enough to cause another hush to fall over the bar’s dwindling patrons. “Not all that,” he says, shaking his head. “I need to get out another big paper, though, for certain.”

“Cheers to that,” Solo replies, raising his glass, and Illya toasts him.

“Waverly is supportive, of course,” Illya continues. “I think the man’s secretly a saint. But I need more of the department on my side, and Victoria is…”

“A poisonous bitch?” Solo supplies helpfully.

Illya chokes on what’s left of his vodka. “Your words, not mine. I thought you two were…”  
  
“We were only ever on-again off-again,” Solo says with a dismissive wave of his hand, “and now it’s decidedly off. For good, thank god. You know, at the time I resented you for getting that job, but fuck, it would have been a disaster. So thanks, I guess.”  
  
“You’re welcome, Cowboy,” Illya chuckles. “You like Yale?”

Solo shrugs. “It’s fine. Students are great. Department’s mostly nice. Sanders is definitely the devil, though. I mean, he’s perfectly ok to most of the department, which is why he’s still chair I guess, but I swear he has it out for me.”

“He just doesn’t like that all the grad students want to work with you.”

“Probably true,” Solo admits. He gestures to Illya’s now-empty glass. “Another?”

“I shouldn’t,” Illya demurs, “and you probably shouldn’t either.”

Solo makes a face at him. “Thanks, mom. You want the same?”

“Make it a vodka tonic,” Illya hears himself saying. This is a terrible, terrible idea, but in this moment he is just drunk enough not to care.

Illya is certain he must have gone through some kind of small time warp, because the next thing he knows it’s two in the morning and the bartender is telling them last call. They’ve been talking and laughing, sharing their worries about tenure and funny stories about their students, and generally acting like they need to catch up on three years of not speaking in one night. They weren’t ever really _friends_ , even before the rivalry started in earnest toward the end of their grad school years, and in his current state Illya can’t remember or understand the reason why.

Solo is halfway through a story about getting locked in an archive overnight in Florence when Illya finds himself staring at the line of his jaw and the dimple on his chin and the elegant curve of his throat and—

Oh shit. This is trouble. Real trouble, not appreciating-that-your-nemesis-is-hot trouble.

He blinks rapidly and hopes Solo won’t notice—and the other man seems to be drunk enough and wrapped up enough in his story that this is indeed the case—desperately trying to push the traitorous thoughts out of his head. He wills himself to focus on what Solo is saying instead of the curl that’s flopped down over his forehead (god dammit) and manages to pay enough attention to laugh at the appropriate times as the story wraps up.

Draining the rest of his drink, Illya pushes himself slightly back in the booth and looks around. They are alone apart from the bartender, who’s still wiping down the bartop. “I think they’re going to kick us out, Cowboy.”

“You’re probably right, Peril. Shall we?”

Illya’s legs are steadier than he expected, and fortunately he only barely sways as he stands. At some point Solo had shed his jacket and is carrying it now as they walk to the elevators, his muscular back straining the thin fabric of his waistcoat. Illya tears his gaze away and shakes his head. Who wears a three-piece suit to a conference? Seriously. His attempts at convincing himself of Solo’s absurdity are falling flat, though, and he can’t help but feeling helplessly charmed by the man.

“You could come up to my room, if you’d like,” Solo suggests lightly as they wait for the elevator. “For a nightcap.”

Illya snorts to keep from choking in surprise. “Nightcap? Isn’t that what we’ve just been having?”  
  
“Drinks at a bar aren’t a nightcap,” he says, the ghost of a mischevious smile playing on his lips.

Definitely, definitely trouble.

Illya is, to be completely honest, not sure what to make of the invitation. Solo’s revolving bedroom door is no secret, although he seems to sensibly avoid such things when it comes to colleagues. He’s also openly bisexual, whereas Illya… well, the number of people at this conference who know he is gay could be counted on one hand. On one finger, in fact. He’s never really planned it that way, but it also just seems like no one’s business. He supposes Solo might be drunk enough to risk a proposition to his (former) nemesis, who he doesn’t even know would be receptive. But it could also be _Illya_ being drunk enough to read far to much into the situation and seeing things that aren’t there. Regardless, he’s not too drunk to know that there is only one correct answer here.

“Better not, Cowboy,” he says, offering a small smile as they step into the elevator. “You have a talk in four hours.”

Solo groans and leans against the elevator wall theatrically. “Don’t remind me.” He cracks one eye and looks at Illya. “I won’t hold it against you if you skip it.”

“Nonsense,” Illya says. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

* * *

About halfway through Solo’s talk, Illya kind of wishes he’d missed it. A very cynical part of him wonders if Solo had been trying to get him drunk and tired enough to skip, but that doesn’t really make any sense. Why would Solo go to all that trouble—say all those things about ending their feud—if he didn’t mean it? What benefit would he gain? He’d never showed any hesitance about Illya being present during previous talks where he’d torn him a new one, so why would he care now? If anything, Solo’s talk today is more complimentary and less combative than usual, even as he utterly contradicts almost all of Illya’s conclusions from his last paper. It is completely baffling.

The worst part? The worst part is that he makes some good points. Illya kind of wishes he’d brought a notebook to jot some things down, which might be a first. He settles for hurridly typing in a few notes on his phone, hoping that they’ll be intelligible when he’s actually awake later.

When Illya had stumbled down to the conference rooms that morning, bleary-eyed and unmistakably hungover, Gaby had narrowed her eyes so tightly they almost disappeared.

“What did you _do_?” she had demanded as she pushed a coffee into his hands. “I should have never left you alone.”  
  
Illya huffed, trying to look annoyed at her, but he’d been far too thankful for the caffeine for the expression to land. “I don’t need you to protect me, Gaby. I’m an adult, in case you forgot.”

“Really? Because it looks like you were acting like a horny grad student last night.”

“It does _not_ ,” Illya had insisted, bristling at the implication, “because nothing happened. We had drinks. We talked. The end. We—how do you say?—buried the hatchet.”

Gaby had not been convinced then, and she is clearly even less convinced now. The first time Illya’s name had come out of Solo’s mouth she’d started grumbling, and it doesn’t look like she has any intention of stopping. When the talk is done she turns to glare at him, like it’s Illya’s fault that his work just got taken apart, and stomps out of the room, leaving him to slip out after her.

He needs more coffee, or more likely just to go back to bed. He’s too slow making his decision, though, because somehow Solo catches up to him even though he’d been surrounded by people as soon as he’d stepped off the podium.

“Hey, Peril,” he says, catching Illya’s arm briefly before dropping it like a hot pan when Illya looks down at the contact.

If Illya has any comfort, it’s that Solo looks just as wrecked as he does right now from their late night. There are dark shadows under his eyes, and his tie is just a bit off-skew. Illya is sure that if he didn’t know what was behind it he’d be rather shocked to see him like this. He’s not really sure he wants to engage right now, to be perfectly honest, but something in his eyes makes Illya pause; it takes a moment for him to identify it as concern, and perhaps regret. He’s pretty sure he’s never seen either on Solo’s face before.

“I just wanted to let you know—” Solo starts.

“YOU,” Gaby booms far too loudly for someone her size, bursting into the conversation. “So much for moving beyond all that, huh?”

Solo frowns and turns to face her, face hardening. “Just because we’re not enemies doesn’t mean we can’t disagree. And this is none of your business, anyway.”

“It is my business, and you know why,” she hisses, jabbing a finger into Solo’s chest.

Solo’s expression seems to imply that yes, he knows why, which is disconcerting because Illya decidedly does _not_ know why. “Gaby, look, I’m just trying—” Solo starts again.

“Try harder,” Gaby snarls, clearly not interested in letting him say anything.

With that she hooks an arm through Illya’s and hauls him off down the hall. Confused and half asleep, Illya lets himself be dragged away to who knows where. He risks a glance back to where Solo still stands and sees him staring after them, an unmistakably pained look on his face. It’s fleeting, though, slipping away to be replaced by an easy, fake smile as he’s approached by another colleague wanting to congratulate him on an interesting talk.

“Gaby, can we talk about this?” Illya says eventually, once they’ve turned the corner and left the conference behind them for the most part. He lets his feet grind to halt, forcing her to pause and swing back around toward him.

She huffs at him, dropping his arm. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Obviously there is. Look, I’m tired of this stupid, pointless war between us, and I think he is too. He’s right that we can disagree about things and still be civil to each other. Friendly, even,” Illya tries, scrubbing a hand over his face. It certainly does not help that that traitorous part of his brain chirps to life at this point to suggest that maybe he’d like more than just exchanging smiles and polite conversation once a year at the meetings. “But I trust you. I don’t know what happened between you two, but if what he did was that bad just say the word, and I’ll go back to ignoring him.”

Gaby sighs then, her face softening, and she grabs one of his hands in both of hers and gives it a squeeze. “I’m sorry, Illya. I just… can get a little overprotective, I guess.”

“You undersell yourself, I think,” he says wryly, letting a smile curl up one corner of his mouth. Ever since they’d started working together she’d seemingly adopted him like a lost puppy, and everyone the the field knew that the real danger in going after him was that his pint-sized field tech might tear you in two.

“We used to be really good friends, you know,” she sighs, staring back in the direction they had come. “Me and Solo. Hung out all the time in grad school. He was always a pretentious ass, but he was also kind and funny and and brilliant. Seemed like he could be friends with anyone, except you. When I took this job, he… didn’t take it well. We both said things we regret.” Gaby pauses and looks back up at him, a melancholy smile playing on her lips. “Then you and I became so close, and all I got to see was the asshole part of him anymore. I still don’t think he deserves your forgiveness, but that’s not my call. I can play nice, if that’s what you want. Nic _er_ , anyway.”

“Thanks, Gaby,” Illya says, pulling her into a hug. “Don’t worry, I doubt you’ll have to deal with him that much anyway.”

It’s true, for the rest of the conference at least. Illya and Solo don’t spend any more time alone, although they do interact far more than they have in quite a while. They make polite and innocuous conversation when their overlapping social circles bring them into contact, where in the past one or both would have excused themselves or simply walked off. Illya can see the surprise on his colleagues’ faces, but none of them bring it up save Ana, who never could resist asking questions others would shy away from.

“You and Solo seem friendlier,” she says one day at the afternoon poster session. “Turn over a new leaf?”  
  
“Something like that,” Illya allows. “We had a long talk the first night.”

Ana looks at him curiously. “Your idea or his?”  
  
“His, I guess. Said he was tired of all the fighting.”

“Well, good for you guys,” she says, raising her beer in a toast to him. “Really, the field is better off when people can get along. Who knows, maybe you’ll start collaborating.”

Illya gives a little laugh and shakes his head at her, amused at the idea. “That seems unlikely. You saw his talk?”  
  
“I did,” she nods. “Which is why I think he wouldn’t necessarily be opposed to the idea. You guys like to pretend like there’s some huge chasm between your interpretations that can’t be bridged, but I don’t think that’s true.”

“I’m not sure I see it, but if you say so,” he replies skeptically. Just because their personal war is over doesn’t mean that they’re likely to find any common ground academically.

Ana just shrugs at him. “Never say never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and kudos are love, and keep me writing furiously!


	2. Correspondance, Summer–Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How To Flirt Over Professional Email: a short course

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi All! Thank so much for your love on the first chapter! I have to apologize that this one is pretty short—the shortest one, in fact—and somewhat unusual because I really got into the idea of seeing their relationship build over their emails.
> 
> I'll make it up to you next week because the next chapter is the longest one so far and is quite juicy!

_Qui non vult fieri desidiosus, amet._  
(Let the man who does not wish to be idle fall in love)  
—Ovid

Date: June 6, 3:05 PM  
To: kuryakin@uchicago.edu  
From: napoleon.solo@yale.edu  
Subject: Congrats

Just got done reading your new paper and wanted to say congrats on the pub. A reporter sent it to me early for a comment on the story coming out tomorrow when the embargo lifts. Sounds like you’re going to get some decent press out of this. Don’t worry, I said all good things, even though I’m still smarting a bit from some of those conclusions. I suppose I deserved that after SCS. Hope your tenure prep is going smoothly.

—————  
Napoleon Solo, PhD  
Assistant Professor  
Yale Department of Classics  
406 Phelps Hall  
napoleon.solo@yale.edu

* * *

Date: June 7, 10:57 PM  
To: napoleon.solo@yale.edu  
From: kuryakin@uchicago.edu  
Subject: Re: Congrats

Solo,

I should have known they would contact you for a comment. Saw the article this morning, thanks for taking it easy on me. I have to admit that I owe you because it was some of your comments at SCS that made me look at the materials again in a new light.

Tenure package is going well, especially with the new press. I’m about to leave for the field for a couple of months so it’ll be good to keep my mind off it. How’s your grant writing going?  
  
Cheers,  
K

—————  
Illya Kuryakin, PhD  
Assistant Professor  
Department of Classics  
University of Chicago  
Classics 27  
kuryakin@uchicago.edu

* * *

Date: June 8, 7:52 AM  
To: kuryakin@uchicago.edu  
From: napoleon.solo@yale.edu  
Subject: Re: Congrats

Maybe I should have gotten coauthorship on that one??

Good luck in the field. I’m jealous of your chance to get out of the office this summer, but I don’t envy you the dust. I was always terrible in the field (don’t tell Gaby I admitted that). Grant writing is a pain, as I’m sure you know. Hasn’t changed much beyond what we talked about in San Francisco. If you have any blinding insights, let me know.

—————  
Napoleon Solo, PhD  
Assistant Professor  
Yale Department of Classics  
406 Phelps Hall  
napoleon.solo@yale.edu

* * *

Date: June 20, 8:18 PM  
To: napoleon.solo@yale.edu  
From: kuryakin@uchicago.edu  
Subject: Re: Congrats

Thought of you today. Sorry, no insights on your grant, but check out this fragment of an amphora we excavated.

—————  
Illya Kuryakin, PhD  
Assistant Professor  
Department of Classics  
University of Chicago  
Classics 27  
kuryakin@uchicago.edu

Attachment: [DSC10985.jpg]

* * *

Date: June 20, 8:30 PM  
To: kuryakin@uchicago.edu  
From: napoleon.solo@yale.edu  
Subject: Re: Congrats

Holy shit, Peril.

—————  
Napoleon Solo, PhD  
Assistant Professor  
Yale Department of Classics  
406 Phelps Hall  
napoleon.solo@yale.edu

* * *

Date: June 21, 5:04 AM  
To: napoleon.solo@yale.edu  
From: kuryakin@uchicago.edu  
Subject: Re: Congrats

Thought you might like it. Hey, if it helps your grant, you could mention it. I don’t have any concrete plans in that area any time soon, so someone might as well work on it.

—————  
Illya Kuryakin, PhD  
Assistant Professor  
Department of Classics  
University of Chicago  
Classics 27  
kuryakin@uchicago.edu

* * *

Date: June 21, 8:51 AM  
To: kuryakin@uchicago.edu  
From: napoleon.solo@yale.edu  
Subject: Re: Congrats

Seriously? That would be amazing. Could I get a letter of collaboration from you? (Those are words I never thought I’d type)

—————  
Napoleon Solo, PhD  
Assistant Professor  
Yale Department of Classics  
406 Phelps Hall  
napoleon.solo@yale.edu

* * *

Date: June 21, 9:12 PM  
To: napoleon.solo@yale.edu  
From: kuryakin@uchicago.edu  
Subject: Re: Congrats

No problem, Cowboy.

—————  
Illya Kuryakin, PhD  
Assistant Professor  
Department of Classics  
University of Chicago  
Classics 27  
kuryakin@uchicago.edu

* * *

Date: August 15, 10:46 AM  
To: napoleon.solo@yale.edu  
From: kuryakin@uchicago.edu  
Subject: Re: Congrats

Just got back from the field and put your letter together. Let me know if you need anything else from me.

—————  
Illya Kuryakin, PhD  
Assistant Professor  
Department of Classics  
University of Chicago  
Classics 27  
kuryakin@uchicago.edu

Attachment: [Solo - LOC.pdf]

* * *

Date: August 15, 12:24 PM  
To: kuryakin@uchicago.edu  
From: napoleon.solo@yale.edu  
Subject: Re: Congrats

Thanks a ton, really. How’d the rest of your season go? Find anything else mindblowing?

My proposal is pretty much done now, so at least that’s something. Sponsored research has been hounding me to submit it early but I can’t stop editing. I should just do it. Classes start in like two weeks and I’m totally unprepared. I got stuck teaching Latin I this semester, shoot me now. I’m sure it will tank my eval scores. Not like I could say no, though. Sanders has been on my back for weeks about everything. Kinda feels like he’s just waiting for me to fuck up. But you don’t want to hear my bitching. Your tenure package coming along? Seems like you should be golden from where I’m sitting.

Thanks again for the letter and the offer to work on the amphora. It really means a lot.

—————  
Napoleon Solo, PhD  
Assistant Professor  
Yale Department of Classics  
406 Phelps Hall  
napoleon.solo@yale.edu

* * *

Date: August 17, 5:37 PM  
To: napoleon.solo@yale.edu  
From: kuryakin@uchicago.edu  
Subject: Re: Congrats

Field season was excellent. I’d tell you more, but I have to keep some things to myself. You’ll get to hear about it at SCS.

I’m sure you’ll be fine. Who doesn’t give Napoleon Solo tenure? They’d be shooting themselves in the foot. Oh and I don’t want to hear about your evals. They’ll be miles better than mine. I bet your students write on their eyelids like in Indiana Jones. Fortunately Waverly took pity on me and gave me an upper-level seminar this quarter. Some of our fourth year students even pretend to like me.

Good luck with your work, and don’t let Sanders get you down.

Cheers,  
K

—————  
Illya Kuryakin, PhD  
Assistant Professor  
Department of Classics  
University of Chicago  
Classics 27  
kuryakin@uchicago.edu

* * *

Date: August 28, 6:37 PM  
To: kuryakin@uchicago.edu  
From: napoleon.solo@yale.edu  
Subject: Re: Congrats

Grant officially submitted! Cross all your crossables for me.

Classes are going ok so far. The only thing about my day that’s like Indiana Jones is my desire to climb out my office window when the students are all crowded outside my office. Lord help me if the freshmen discover that office hours are actually useful. When would I get my reading done? And I completely forgot how much I hate teaching declensions. Would it kill people to teach grammar in schools these days? These kids don’t know anything. Then again I don’t think I learned anything about grammar until I took Latin.

You’re still a month off from classes, right? I’m always jealous until I remember that you’re in session in June. You don’t need me to tell you to enjoy it while it lasts. Any big plans? Getting any last minute papers out?

—————  
Napoleon Solo, PhD  
Assistant Professor  
Yale Department of Classics  
406 Phelps Hall  
napoleon.solo@yale.edu

* * *

Date: August 28, 7:02 PM  
To: napoleon.solo@yale.edu  
From: kuryakin@uchicago.edu  
Subject: Re: Congrats

Congrats! It’s always a good feeling to get those proposals submitted. Have an extra drink for me tonight, Cowboy. Or maybe not, it is Tuesday.

It’s true, American schools are very disappointing. If only you taught languages the Russian way, students might actually be prepared for college.

No big plans this month, just trying to sort through the stuff we collected this season and enjoying how peaceful campus is. I spend as much time in the lab as I can until Gaby kicks me out for bothering her (also a great place to hide from students when classes do start). She might kill me for sending you this but you have to see this pot she’s putting back together. I think it will be one of the nicer ones we collected.

Don’t think I’ll get any new papers finished before the quarter starts, but I suppose you never know. Might get more done if I wasn’t writing emails all the time.

Cheers,  
K

—————  
Illya Kuryakin, PhD  
Assistant Professor  
Department of Classics  
University of Chicago  
Classics 27  
kuryakin@uchicago.edu

Attachment: [image0.jpg]

* * *

Date: September 5, 8:54 AM  
To: kuryakin@uchicago.edu  
From: napoleon.solo@yale.edu  
Subject: Re: Congrats

That pot is looking awesome. She’s doing a beautiful job, but that’s no surprise. I’d tell you to send her my compliments, but I would prefer it if you stayed among the living, Peril.

—————  
Napoleon Solo, PhD  
Assistant Professor  
Yale Department of Classics  
406 Phelps Hall  
napoleon.solo@yale.edu

* * *

Date: October 17, 10:33 AM  
To: kuryakin@uchicago.edu  
From: napoleon.solo@yale.edu  
Subject: Visit

Am I right in assuming that you had something to do with the seminar invite I just received from your department?

—————  
Napoleon Solo, PhD  
Assistant Professor  
Yale Department of Classics  
406 Phelps Hall  
napoleon.solo@yale.edu

* * *

Date: October 19, 10:08 PM  
To: napoleon.solo@yale.edu  
From: kuryakin@uchicago.edu  
Subject: Re: Visit

Actually no, though Klein did ask me if it was going to be ok to bring you out. I told him we might be able to avoid yelling at each other in the middle of the quads, but I couldn’t make any promises.

—————  
Illya Kuryakin, PhD  
Assistant Professor  
Department of Classics  
University of Chicago  
Classics 27  
kuryakin@uchicago.edu

* * *

Date: October 20, 1:53 AM  
To: kuryakin@uchicago.edu  
From: napoleon.solo@yale.edu  
Subject: Re: Visit

How very kind of you, Peril.

—————  
Napoleon Solo, PhD  
Assistant Professor  
Yale Department of Classics  
406 Phelps Hall  
napoleon.solo@yale.edu

* * *

Date: November 5, 4:33 PM  
To: napoleon.solo@yale.edu  
From: kuryakin@uchicago.edu  
Subject: Re: Visit

Let me know if you need a ride from the airport or anything. Not sure what your schedule is like while you’re here but maybe we could get together at some point? I need to complain to someone else about tenure because Gaby’s going to murder me if I bring it up again.

—————  
Illya Kuryakin, PhD  
Assistant Professor  
Department of Classics  
University of Chicago  
Classics 27  
kuryakin@uchicago.edu

* * *

Date: November 5, 7:38 PM  
To: kuryakin@uchicago.edu  
From: napoleon.solo@yale.edu  
Subject: Re: Visit

I think Waverly is actually getting me at the airport, but definitely yes to drinks or whatever while I’m there. My cell is 651-892-0751. I’ll let you know what my schedule looks like when it gets closer.

—————  
Napoleon Solo, PhD  
Assistant Professor  
Yale Department of Classics  
406 Phelps Hall  
napoleon.solo@yale.edu

* * *

Napoleon’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he avoids the urge to grab it. Not that he thinks Waverly would notice; he’s too busy pointing out landmarks and telling him about the school, as if Napoleon hadn’t interviewed here six years ago and gotten the exact same speech then. Maybe he thinks Napoleon will have forgotten, or maybe he himself has forgotten it ever happened. Probably better that way.

“Do you like Middle Eastern food?” Waverly is saying. “I suppose I should have asked ahead of time, but it’s rather one of our departmental traditions, when we have a visitor. Lovely little place, near campus. Delicious falafel.”  
  
Napoleon knows. He went there six years ago. “Love it,” he replies with a broad smile. At least the food was quite good, from what he remembers.

“Splendid! We’ll get you checked in at the Quad Club and then meet the others there.”

Wavely begins chattering about this and that, and Napoleon takes the opportunity to carefully extract his phone from his pocket and glance down at it. A few texts have come in from a number he doesn’t recognize, Chicago area code, but when he flicks open the screen there’s no mystery who they’re from.

**Department’s taking you to dinner, Cowboy**   
**We can grab a drink after? Pub’s right there, or we can head downtown if you like**

He bites his lower lip subtly to fight back a smile that wants to steal onto his lips and tries very hard not to think about why texts from this man, who until recently might be best classified as an archenemy, would illicit such a response. Clutching the phone behind his thigh, he types in a reply with one thumb and tries to look like he’s paying attention to Waverly instead.

**Pub’s fine**   
**I don’t think Waverly remembers that I’ve been here before**

There’s a brief delay, and then his phone buzzes again several times in a row.

**Who can tell**   
**Probably he’s just being polite**   
**He is very British after all**

A laugh chokes out of him before he can stop it, and he tries to turn it into a believable cough. Which, of course, draws Waverly’s attention, so Napoleon jams the phone under his thigh and waves off his concern, taking a drink from his water bottle to cover. It seems to work, because after a bit Waverly falls back into telling Napoleon about the department. When he seems suitably distracted, Napoleon extracts his phone again. He types in his message and hits send before he can second guess himself.

**Is Gaby coming to dinner** ****

**She thought it was better if she didn’t**

Napoleon can’t blame her, really. Whatever Illya had said to her at the conference had restored a tense kind of truce between them, but he could tell that her anger with him still simmered just below the surface. Well, there was only so much he could do. His phone buzzes again.

**She says she’s coming to your talk tomorrow though**   
**To keep you in line**

He wonders if she’s standing there next to Illya, reading over his shoulder, or if he is reading the texts out. Napoleon would be surprised at how close the two of them had become, except he knows Gaby. He knows how her passion and spark and cleverness work their way under your skin until you can’t imagine your life without her in it. A wave of bitter regret surges through him and he pushes it away. No point in dwelling on the past.

**Seems fair**   
**See you soon Peril**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're not familiar with the Indiana Jones scenes they're referring to, [here's the one with the writing on eyelids](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=09dmQjTqFtI) and [here's the one where he climbs out the window](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qhh2qlBPTb8) (sorry for the really shitty quality, it was the only one I could find). The latter one is quite a big mood for me some days. 😂
> 
> Thank you for reading, and thank you for your comments! Hearing what you think really means the world to me!


	3. Chicago Visit, November

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adventures in campus visits; or, Napoleon falls into the deep end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with [cover art over on tumblr!](https://cha-melodius.tumblr.com/post/631055505350098944/new-cover-art-and-a-new-chapter-posted-fo-my)

_Amare et sapere vix deo conceditur_  
(Even a god finds it hard to love and be wise at the same time)  
—Publilius Syrus and Laberius

Most of the department are already seated by the time he and Waverly arrive, leaving two seats next to each other toward the middle of the long table. On one side sits one of the emeritus faculty that Napoleon vaguely remembers meeting when he was last here, and on the other sits… Victoria. Her long blonde hair is swept up into her usual perfect bun, not a strand out of place, and she’s paired the deep V neck of her blouse with a dramatic necklace to further highlight her long neck. When she looks up at his approach her face settles into a small, serene, but nevertheless predatory smile, and Napoleon has to suppress a shudder.

Napoleon would much rather sit next to the ancient emeritus and be bored half the night, but of course the one thing Waverly would remember about Napoleon is his association with Victoria. “After you,” he says, gesturing magnanimously to the chair next to Napoleon’s ex.

“Thank you,” Napoleon says in his smoothest tones, his face a careful mask of pleasant equanimity.

He slips into the chair and glances around the rest of the table: a collection of various faculty and students, most of whom he’s met at some point or another. Directly opposite him sit several grad students, which Napoleon is thankful for. Grad students are easy to talk to, on the whole. They introduce themselves as students of Waverly, Kuryakin, and Lincoln, and begin a rapid-fire chatter about their projects and Napoleon’s own work.

Leaving his attention half on the students, he lets his gaze wander to the left to catch Illya’s eye where he sits a few seats down at the opposite side of the table. The corner of his mouth twitches, obvious amusement sparkling in those brilliant blue eyes—they’re both quite familiar with how much of a circus visiting another institution can be—and Napoleon allows his smile to widen ever so slightly in response.

Good lord. How they got to being the kind of people who share secret smiles across a crowded table, he has no idea.

Illya’s elbows are propped up on the table, hands clasped loosely in front of his chest, and he drops his head slightly toward them, almost like he’s trying to hide a real smile. The checkered button-down he’s wearing has the sleeves rolled to his elbows despite the fact that it’s November in Chicago, revealing muscular forearms with the last vestiges of a field season’s worth of a tan still clinging to his skin. Napoleon’s mouth goes dry as his eyes linger on this frankly irresponsible display, and he finds himself gulping water, hoping no one notices.

“You look like you’re doing well,” Victoria says from his other side, snapping him back to reality.

He turns to look at her to find that tiny, careful smile on her face and that gaze that always made him feel picked apart, like she could see right through him. At one point he’d actually liked that about her—it felt like she could see him in a way that no one else could—but now it’s fairly horrifying. He feels dissected, and it’s all the more uncomfortable because of the _moment_ he’d just shared with Illya, or whatever the fuck that was.

“I am, thank you,” he replies lightly, inclining his head toward her slightly.

“Up for tenure this year, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” His impending tenure is nearly the last thing he wants to discuss with her, but there’s simply no polite way around it.

A few orders of mezes have been delivered to the table, and out of the corner of his eye he can see the students reach forward to dig into the appetizers. Victoria spears a triangle of pita with a fork before dragging it into the hummus, and Napoleon can only stare. Who eats hummus and pita with a fork? Psychopaths, that’s who.

“You think you’ll get it without the grant, then?” she asks casually, like it’s nothing, like she’s asking him if he thinks it will be sunny tomorrow.

Ice floods through his veins. “Well, my proposal’s still in review. Maybe it’ll be funded this time. Per— _Kuryakin_ was even so good as to let me add in a fragment of amphora he found this summer that really supports my—”

“Did he now?” Victoria purrs her interruption, her smile turning unmistakably cruel. Her eyes flick past Napoleon to where Illya sits. Napoleon can hear him talking with someone else down the table, thankfully oblivious that he’d become their topic of conversation. “How _very_ kind of him. And in his own tenure year, too. I didn’t realize you were such good friends.”

 _This_ is, in fact, the very last thing he wants to discuss with Victoria. She knows, better than anyone at this table save Illya, exactly what kind of relationship they’ve had for the past six years or so. She’d sat through Napoleon’s rants after Illya’s more brutal talks, listened to him complain endlessly about Illya’s work, even fed him information a few times on things Illya hadn’t presented yet. The memory of all of it now makes him decidedly ill.

“Well,” he says carefully, “I guess sometimes you just figure out that people aren’t who you thought they were.”

Victoria cocks an eyebrow at him and sips at her glass of wine. “Indeed.”

“Well then, Solo, have you decided what you’ll have?” Waverly asks cheerfully from his other side.

Napoleon thinks he’s never been so thankful for a rescue. He gratefully turns away from Victoria and smiles at the older man next to him. “What do you recommend?”

* * *

The rest of the dinner goes smoothly enough, and Napoleon is saved from having to talk with Victoria again by myriad questions from the students. Whatever. He’d rather talk to the grad students for hours than Victoria for a minute. Of course, he’d _really_ rather talk to Illya. There are uncountable times he wants to make some sarcastic comment under his breath, something he thinks might make Illya laugh or at least pull out one of those small, amused smiles he tries and fails to hide. Sometimes Napoleon says one of his comments anyway, when they are innocuous enough. The laughter from the rest of the table is nothing compared to the surge of pleasure he feels when he sees Illya’s lips curl in amusement.

Oh god, he could get addicted to that.

He’s still chatting with students as the dinner wraps up and everyone starts getting up to go their separate ways. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Illya come around the table and stop next to Waverly’s side.

“I’ll take him back to the Quad Club, Alex,” he offers, shrugging on a tweed blazer.

Napoleon bites back a knowing smile and a thrill of something like delight. The pub outing could have easily been a group affair, but it’s clear from Illya’s comment to Waverly that he would rather it be just him and Napoleon. That doesn’t necessarily _mean_ anything, of course—maybe Illya wants to talk about people in his department and doesn’t want it getting around, or maybe he just doesn’t care for large group things—but Napoleon can’t quite suppress a (stupid, irrational, problematic) hope that the reasons have more to do with Illya wanting to spend time alone with him.

“Ah, why thank you, Illya,” Waverly replies as Napoleon turns toward them and picks up his own coat. He smiles and offers his hand to shake, which Napoleon takes. “Good to have you here, Solo. Shall I come by and fetch you in the morning, or can you find your way to the department?”

“I think I can manage,” Napoleon says. The Quad Club is right next to the main quads, and if he walks over on his own he can take the time to admire the stunning gothic architecture of the school. Plus, there’s no telling how early ‘morning’ means for Waverly, and he’s not set to meet with anyone until 10am.

The extended process of saying goodbye to everyone around a large dinner like this has never been something Napoleon has minded too much, but tonight is different. Tonight he feels Illya watching him, waiting to whisk him off to drinks and easy camaraderie, and his whole body seems to itch with anticipation. Every person who comes to shake his hand and wave goodbye is another annoyance, and he feels his smile getting strained by the minute.

It doesn’t even improve immediately, because several others are walking the same direction they are, but it’s fortunately only for a few blocks and then he and Illya are blissfully alone. They haven’t actually been alone together since that first night of the conference, and things feel different now. After his talk at SCS he and Illya had been polite, friendly but distant, not interacting too much, and Napoleon wondered if he might have screwed everything up immediately. But then they’d started emailing back and forth over the summer and he found himself looking forward to hearing from his former rival. Walking together now, chatting about nothing in particular, they’ve seemingly recaptured the magic of that night when they’d stayed out far too late and talked endlessly, like close friends catching up after not seeing each other for years.

They find the Pub quite crowded, which is surprising until Napoleon remembers its a Thursday night. Oh, to be a student again. There aren’t any open tables, but they cram next to each other standing at the bar and Napoleon can’t be too mad about _that_. He knows he shouldn’t drink too much, but he doesn’t have to be in until 10 after all and he also knows this seminar like the back of his hand. The Pub doesn’t have a huge selection, of course, but he finds a drinkable Scotch. Illya sticks with beer but orders a fairly high-alcohol Belgian ale, and Napoleon catalogs that information away for some later date.

“When will you hear about the grant?” Illya asks. They’ve of course been talking about tenure, because that’s all either of them can think about right now.

“Not until early spring,” Napoleon replies, sipping his Scotch. “Just before the personnel committee has to make their recommendation, I think.”

“You’ll get it,” Illya says confidently.  
  
Napoleon huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head slightly. “I wish I had your optimism, Peril.”

“It’s easy to be optimistic for other people,” he says with a shrug. “Now in my own case…”

Napoleon doesn’t get to find out what Illya isn’t optimistic about in that moment, because suddenly there are several bright-eyed faces next to them and one of them says excitedly, “Oh my God! Dr. K? Hi!”

Illya turns in surprise and smiles at them, nodding his greeting a little awkwardly. “Hey guys, good to see you.”

“Do you come to the Pub often? We’ve never seen you here before,” another asks.

“Ah, not that much,” Illya answers. “I was just talking to our speaker for tomorrow, Dr.—”  
  
“Dr. Solo!” the first squeaks. “I recognize you from when you were on Colbert.”

 _Oh, that_ , Napoleon thinks ruefully. It had been a blast, of course—he’d always been a fan of Colbert, and the man was sharp as a tack—but he quickly found that attitudes about his appearance fell into two camps. Either people were impressed and excited, or they disdained him as a sellout and an attention whore. Students, on the whole, fell into the former camp at least, and these ones were no exception.

“Pleasure to meet you all,” Napoleon says, giving them a practiced smile.

“Oh, come sit with us!” a third suggests, gesturing over his shoulder to a booth currently being held down by another student. “We’d love to hear more about your research!”

“Lukas!” the second says in a chastising voice. “They’re clearly…” She trails off when she realizes that the two professors are watching her, leaving what they’re _clearly_ doing unsaid. She flushes slightly in the dim light, and Napoleon is left wondering what the implication is here. He doesn’t think they’re _clearly_ anything, except talking to each other. He chalks it up to undergrads being weird about seeing professors outside of class, as they so often are.

“What? I’m just offering,” Lukas protests. “Not like there’s anywhere else to sit.”

This was decidedly not part of the plan. He glances at Illya, who gives him a little shrug as if to say _up to you_ , then looks back at the expectant faces in front of him. They look rather excited about getting to talk to him, and it wouldn’t do to be rude. “Sure, for a bit,” he agrees, keeping his reluctance to himself.

The students bustle off, leaving the two professors to follow, and Illya leans toward him slightly. “My seminar students. I’m sure they’ll all be prepared for class at 9 tomorrow,” he mutters with a wry grin.

“I suppose that’s a benefit of teaching freshmen and sophomores,” Napoleon muses. “No running into them at the bar.”

There are two chair set at the end of the booth and Napoleon appreciates that the students have apparently left their professors an out. He pulls off his coat and takes a seat, smiling at the students, so he’s completely unprepared for the hand that lands on his shoulder as Illya drops into the chair next to him. It’s a fleeting touch, Illya steadying himself as he squeezes into the narrow space and takes the chair more than anything, but somehow Napoleon feels the heat of his hand on his shoulder long after it’s gone. He shoots a furtive look at Illya but if the Russian noticed that he used Napoleon as a prop, he’s not showing it.

“Dr. K has told us so much about your work!” the first student says excitedly, forcing him back to the reality of the situation.

“All good things, I hope?” Napoleon asks.

“Oh yeah,” the third replies. “It’s so cool how you guys can disagree about the textual versus archaeological interpretations of the material but still be such good friends.”

Well, that is a generous interpretation of their shared history, Napoleon thinks. He glances at Illya with an eyebrow slightly raised, but the Russian seems to be studiously avoiding his gaze and going a bit pink in the ears.

“That’s not always the case in our field,” he says, watching Illya out of the corner of his eye, “but it’s nice when it can work out.”

Illya looks at him, then, the corner of his mouth twitching upward ever so slightly, and Napoleon thinks he can feel something shift further between them. The moment is fleeting, though, and soon they’re wrapped up in the flurry of probing student questions. At some point Napoleon starts watching Illya’s beer and using its level as a timer to extract themselves from this. When Illya does finish it he excuses himself to go to the restroom, abandoning Napoleon to the undergrads. He thinks viciously that he’ll make Illya pay for that, later.

For now he turns back to the students, considering that maybe he can gain some valuable intel. He leans back casually in his chair. “So, how do you like Dr. K’s class?”

“Oh, we love him,” one says enthusiastically. “The first years all think he’s gruff and scary but once you get to be a fourth year you find out he’s just a big teddy bear.”

Napoleon cannot help but laugh at that description. Illya would die of mortification if he knew. “Is that so?”

“His fourth-year seminar always fills first,” Lukas confirms. “His and Dr. Waverly’s. They’re, like, secretly the nicest guys in the department.”

 _Pretend to like him, my ass_ , Napoleon thinks, remembering Illya’s email. Four students aren’t a majority, of course, but he doubts that attitudes differ significantly among the others. “Well, I’m going to go find the lovable Dr. K so we can talk about boring professor stuff,” he tells them. “Don’t drink too much, ok? If you’re hungover tomorrow in class he’s gonna know.”

The students all laugh and promise they won’t, and Napoleon feels his eyes go wide as he turns to leave. _Lovable?_ Did he really just say that? To a table of undergrads? _He_ might die of mortification, come to think on it. His consternation must still show on his face because when Illya meets him near the bar he gives Napoleon a curious look.

“What did they say to you, Cowboy?” he asks.

“Huh?” Napoleon says, schooling his features back to something more neutral. “Oh, nothing. They like you a lot, you know.”  
  
“Bah,” Illya replies with a dismissive wave of his hand. “They’re just saying that because they think we’re friends.”  
  
“And where did they get that idea?”

Illya shrugs and presses his lips together sheepishly. “I might be running seminar a bit differently this year.”  
  
“Is it wrong that I want to know what your former students think of me?” Napoleon asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“Pretty sure there’s one in your department. Rebecca?”

“Oh right,” Napoleon says, thinking of the quiet girl with fiery red hair. “I think she’s probably afraid to bring you up around me.”

“Wise girl,” Illya smirks. “Another Scotch for you?”

Napoleon grins at him, and his cheeky retort is out of his mouth before he can stop it. “Trying to get me drunk, Peril?”  
  
Illya pretends to think on this idea, lips twitching as he tries somewhat unsuccessfully to hold back a smile. “Maybe I want to make you look bad in your seminar tomorrow. It’s all a very long game.”

“Damn,” Napoleon says. If he can’t be bothered to hide his own grin, so be it. “I might have to reconsider some of the things I was going to talk about tomorrow.”

“Oh? You’re telling me you weren’t going for a repeat of your talk at SCS?”

“Little hard to do, after that paper of yours this summer,” Napoleon points out. “I’m still licking my wounds.”

“How do the kids say it? Sorry not sorry?” Illya replies.

His blue eyes are twinkling in the low light with mirth, and he looks _so pleased_ at his teasing that Napoleon’s heart gives a little ridiculously fond flutter in his chest. He finds himself wondering how he could have been so stupid all those years to not see what they could have had. All that fighting, and for what? It got them nothing, in the end, because there’s never been such things as ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ in this field.

Illya leans over the bar to get the bartender’s attention, and Napoleon absolutely does _not_ lean back slightly and take a moment to appreciate the curve of his ass in his jeans. Then he makes the mistake of glancing back up to where Illya’s students are still sitting and finds them very clearly watching him, several of them definitely giggling in delight.

Napoleon turns away quickly, trying not to look too caught out, to find Illya handing him another Scotch. Their fingers brush as he takes it, which sends something like a static shock jolting through Napoleon’s arm. He’s unfortunately pretty certain that static electricity was not the culprit. Taking a sizable gulp of his drink, he wills his mind back to more sedate things.

“What were you going to say before?” he asks Illya. “About not being optimistic?”

Illya’s expression turns a little grim and Napoleon kind of wishes he’d chosen a different topic of conversation. But, well, tenure. “Oh, it never seems like enough,” Illya says with a sigh. “Even with the paper and the press this summer.”

“What more do they want?”

Illya shrugs. “Chair of the committee says I need more invited seminars. Why is that even a thing?”

“We could invite you to Yale,” Napoleon suggests, cursing himself for not thinking of it earlier. “Surely that’s high-profile enough.”

“No, you came here first, and it will just look like some kind of reciprocal invitation,” Illya replies with a shake of his head. Napoleon makes a mental note to contact some friends in New York and Boston—surely one of them would be interested, and maybe if he comes near to Connecticut Napoleon could go meet him and they could go out—but while Napoleon is getting far ahead of himself, Illya has already moved on. “And then there’s the teaching…” he trails off with a small huff.  
  
“What about it?” Napoleon asks, confused.

Illya frowns. “My evals aren’t great, not for the first year classes, and the college has been making more noise about student engagement.”

“First of all, evals for service courses are bullshit,” Napoleon says hotly. He can feel himself launching into a rant, but he doesn’t really care. It’s somewhat of a hot-button topic for him, despite the fact that his own evals are usually pretty good. “And second, this is a freaking R1. All those research expectations, and they want you to be the world’s best teacher too? There are only so many hours in the day. I don’t understand administrators these days. They want you to be Superman or something.”

He’s surprised, at the end of his tirade, to find Illya seemingly fighting back a smile. “You kind of look like him, you know. When that curl escapes…”

Illya trails off when he realizes what he’s just said, like he’s admitted too much. He blushes a significant shade of red, and Napoleon has to bite his tongue against the warm tug of something deep in his gut. He can’t read too much into it, he _can’t_ , it’s just a harmless comment, but _oh_ does he want to.

“Yeah, well,” Napoleon says somewhat awkwardly, feeling an uncomfortable amount of heat in his own face, “most days I feel more like Clark Kent. Who in the department cares what the administration thinks about teaching, anyway?” he adds, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters.

“Victoria, for one,” Illya tells him, “but I think she’s mostly just looking for anything she can use against me.”

Napoleon groans in disgust. Of course it would be her. “Like her evals are anything to brag about,” he scoffs. “I know. I've seen them. And no one hung her out to dry about them when she went up a couple of years ago.”

“Things change,” Illya says with a shrug. “I think the seminar course this quarter will help.”

In a replay of their conversation at SCS, the night slips away from them as they talk. Illya’s students left more than an hour ago, waving goodbye and _winking_ at them (dear lord), which left Illya confused; Napoleon did not choose enlighten him. The crowd at the pub has thinned out but they’re still standing at the bar, closer together than is strictly necessary, and Napoleon can feel the liquor blunting the edges of his thoughts and loosening his tongue. Probably not for the best, if he’s being honest with himself.

“My students will never let me live it down if look even a little hungover,” Illya groans.

“Probably not,” Napoleon agrees. Not that bunch, anyway. He’s seized by a desperate hope that they won’t make any pointed comments or innuendos, or that if they do, Illya won’t know what they’re talking about.

“C’mon,” Illya says, nodding toward the door. “I’ll walk you back to the Quad Club. It’s not far out of my way.”

“Such a gentleman,” Napoleon murmurs before he can shut himself up.

The temperature outside has dipped precipitously since they left dinner, and the air has that crispness of winter overlaying the last traces of autumn. Their breaths plume out in front of them in spectacular clouds, and Napoleon is left wishing for a scarf. At least he’s got his wool peacoat; Illya is wearing only the light tweed jacket and looking no worse for the wear, somehow.

“Do you wear that all winter, or does it ever get cold enough here for you to put on a real coat?” Napoleon asks, hunching slightly against the chill.

Illya huffs out a small laugh and shakes his head. “I have a real coat,” he says. Which really isn’t an answer to the question, Napoleon notices. “I run hot.”

“Russians,” Napoleon says with as much exasperation as he can muster. It comes out ridiculously fond anyway.

He has a brief fantasy of snuggling up next to Illya, slipping his arms around his waist and soaking up that promised heat on cold days. It’s enough to distract him, apparently, because abruptly one of his feet slips from underneath him on what must be ice, and before he can even attempt to regain his balance Illya is there, catching him to stop his fall.

“I’m fine,” Napoleon huffs, more embarrassed than anything else, “just a patch of ice…”

His words die in his throat, because Illya is still holding onto him, clutching Napoleon’s arm to his chest with one hand while the other rests on Napoleon’s back, and when Napoleon looks up they are suddenly so, so close. The warmth of Illya’s exhale caresses his face as they stare at each other, each locked in the other’s gaze. He thinks, irrationally, that he can feel the heat of Illya’s body through his coat.

 _Kiss him_ , some voice inside him whispers.

He could, right now. It would be so easy to lean up and press their lips together, and his mouth practically tingles with the thought of it. He’s drunk enough that he feels his body swaying forward without his permission. It’s _such_ a stupid idea. He doesn’t even know for sure that Illya is attracted to men at all, although he likes to think he’s pretty good at reading these things. Besides their more recent interactions, Napoleon remembers the way the other boy used to look at him years ago, back when they were grad students, and he doesn’t think he’s wrong on this count. It’s this hopeful, idiotic part of him that is currently trying to convince him that this is a good idea.

 _Just do it_ , the voice hisses.

“Napoleon,” Illya breathes. Napoleon’s heart lurches at the sound of his first name on Illya’s lips—has he ever heard that before? He doesn’t think so—and feels like it’s going to hammer right out of his chest. He leans closer, until the tips of their noses barely brush, but then Illya is dropping his arm and stumbling away.

“I— I’m sorry,” he stammers. There is unmistakable fear in his piercing blue eyes, and Napoleon feels like the ground falls out from underneath him. Illya takes another few steps back and jams his hands in his pants, hunching almost defensively. Staring at the ground, he mumbles, “I have to go,” then flees.

Napoleon stands frozen on the sidewalk and watches him go, dumbfounded. Clearly, he got it all wrong. It’s the simplest explanation, Occam’s Razor and all that. Napoleon just read the situation completely wrong. Illya was never interested in him like that, only as a friend, and now Napoleon’s gone and probably ruined that too. The thought feels like a sword running him through, like a shot to the gut, like some other dramatic ways of dying that Napoleon of course has no actual experience with. He’d let himself fall far too deep, too fast. He can see that now. It was stupid, but he can come back from it, if Illya is willing. He can be just friends. He can.

They’d been standing just down the block from the Quad Club, but Napoleon doesn’t return to his hotel room. His feet move on their own, and he doesn’t know where he’s going until he finds himself standing outside Victoria’s townhouse. It’s after midnight, and she might be asleep, but he goes and rings the buzzer anyway.

 _What are you doing here_ , some rational part of his mind asks. The drunk part that carried him doesn’t answer.

“What are you doing here?” Victoria says without greeting when she opens the door. She’s still wearing the same outfit as earlier that evening, makeup and hair still done up. Not sleeping, then. “Napoleon,” she prompts when he doesn’t answer. “What do you want? I thought you were out with Kuryakin.”

“What’s your problem with him?” he snaps, ignoring the fact that somehow she’d known they were together. He pushes past her into the house, but stops only a few paces in and turns to glare at her.

Victoria cocks an eyebrow at him quizzically. “You have to ask?”

“I know what my problem _was_ with him,” Napoleon huffs. “I don’t know what yours is.”

She stares at him for a moment then closes the door behind him, turning and folding her arms in front of her. “I don’t think that’s any of your business,” she has the temerity to say.

“Really,” he scoffs. “ _Really_. I don’t know if you think you’re doing this for me or to get back at me or what, but just cut it out.”

“This may amaze you to hear, but it’s not all about you, Napoleon,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I have real concerns…”  
  
“About what? His teaching? Give me a break. His students love his class.”

“And how would you know that?”

“I talked to some of them, at the pub,” he tells her.

Her eyes narrow ever so slightly, and Napoleon suddenly feels wrong-footed. “His current students?” she asks.

“Well, yeah.”

“He was with you?”  
  
“No,” he says slowly, “he’d just stepped out.”

“Hmm,” she hums disapprovingly. He doesn’t like the sound of that one bit. But there’s no rule against running into students at a bar, it’s just a fact of life. If Victoria ever deigned to go out to bars on the south side, she’d know this. She considers him for a long moment, as if evaluating him as he stands there in her foyer. He knows his face is flushed from the cold and his hair is mussed from where he’d run his hands through it on the way here, and he wonders what she sees there. “Why are you really here?”

“I told you,” he insists. The alcohol feels like it’s actively ebbing away from him while he stands there, making this little visit seem increasingly like the terrible idea that it clearly was. “This was a mistake,” he mutters, shaking his head.

He moves to push past her and out the door again, but to his surprise she catches his arm, swinging him around to face her. She’s dissecting him again, taking him apart bit by bit until there’s nothing left but his bones, and he feels the cold settle in them more deeply than when he’d been outside.

“I think you’re lonely,” she says, raising a delicate hand to his face in an attempt to cup his jaw. For a moment, there’s almost something soft in her face.

Napoleon flinches away, tearing out of her grasp. “I certainly did _not_ come here to get laid.”

Victoria folds her arms in front of her again and frowns coldly at him. “No, you’d rather have a different tall blond in your bed, wouldn’t you? I suppose I’m just not Russian enough.”

He really shouldn’t be surprised that she saw through him so easily, but it doesn’t make the realization any more comfortable. Has he really been that obvious? Or is it just Victoria? He hopes fervently that it’s the latter.

“I’d tell you to be careful, but really I should be warning him,” she continues when he says nothing. “Once you fuck him you’ll get tired of the chase and come crawling back to me, like you always do.”

Her words land too well, knives slipping between his ribs and twisting. He’s not proud of who he was, years ago, when he’d take a different person to bed every night during the ‘breaks’ in their relationship in an effort to feel something. Anything at all. It wasn’t until he’d finally broken things off for good with her that he seemed to emerge from the haze and see things more clearly. It wasn’t a coincidence that the night he’d approached Illya at SCS had followed less than a year later.

“I finally got away from you, Victoria,” he says, his voice low and hard. “Away from your twisted mind games. I’m never, _never_ coming back.”

This time when he goes to the door she lets him. He stumbles out into the cold, cursing the idiotic part of his brain that brought him here. He should have just gone to his room. He should have left it alone. If he’s lucky nothing will actually come of it, but he’s not that naive. Whatever Victoria has gleaned from that interaction, she’ll manage to use it against him someday, when he least expects it. She always does.

* * *

Illya stares down at a pile of grad student papers on his desk, not so much reading them as willing them to mark themselves up. He holds his pen uncapped in his hand, like it will convince him that he should write and not let the red ink dry in the nib. The threat of having to clean it out is not doing enough to keep him going this morning, though. He definitely has a headache from last night despite loads of coffee and painkillers, even though he did his best not to show it to his seminar—his students either didn’t notice or were polite enough not to comment—and he definitely is _not_ thinking about what happened between him and Napoleon. Or rather, what did not happen. Whatever. He’s not thinking about it.

He’s certainly not thinking of how good it had felt talking to him all night. He’s not thinking of Napoleon’s passion, his humor, his brilliance. Definitely not of how the curl had escaped his hair gel and Illya had compared him to Superman (oh my god) and how he’d flushed like he was pleased. And he’s absolutely, positively not thinking of how Napoleon had felt in his arms, and how their noses had brushed in what was clearly going to be a kiss before Illya had freaked out and run away, like an idiot.

Shit. He’s definitely thinking about it. He’s seconds away from dropping his head down onto the papers in frustration when a familiar voice speaks from his doorway.

“I should have known you’d be a Pelikan fan, Peril”

Illya manages to suppress a start of surprise and looks up to see Napoleon leaning in the frame. A brief wave of panic surges through him—is he going to bring up last night? are things going to be awkward?—but Napoleon has an easy smile on his face and there’s not a trace of discomfort in his posture. Whatever his thoughts on what did or did not happen last night, he seems content to pretend it never happened and revert to being friends. This is what Illya wanted, right? This was safe. This was logical. This definitely did not call for the disappointed feeling surging through his chest.

Napoleon’s eyes flick pointedly to the fountain pen in Illya’s hand, which he finally caps before setting it down on the pile of papers. The red stripes of the barrel gleam up at him. “I suppose you have only Montblancs?” he retorts, letting his lips twist into a smirk. “Or maybe Viscontis.”

“Oh, I’m more of a Japanese nib person myself,” Napoleon admits. “I might be slightly addicted to Nakayas.”

Illya chuckles at that, imagining Napoleon with a case full of custom urushi fountain pens. It fits, somehow. “I thought you had meetings all morning,” he says, leaning back in his chair.

“I do, but Klein had to run to class and Lincoln’s late, so I came to bother you.” Napoleon spreads his hands as if to say _here I am_ , because where else would he be?

“Well, thank you for the excuse to stop staring blankly at these papers,” Illya says. “You have lunch plans today?”  
  
Napoleon nods, looking a bit disappointed to be giving this answer, and it sends a little burst of warmth through Illya’s chest. “They’re sending me out with some undergrads, I think. Maybe I’ll get to chat with your students some more.”  
  
“Sorry, Cowboy,” Illya grins. He doesn’t envy him having to spend a whole lunch with them. “They told me to tell you they weren’t hungover for class this morning.”  
  
“More than you could say, huh?” Napoleon shoots back with a wicked smile.

Illya’s traitorous body actually yawns at that point, drawing a bark of laughter from Napoleon. He bites it back, glaring through watering eyes. “S’ok. I’ll just sleep through your seminar.”

“I tried to suggest that once, and you wouldn’t listen.”

“On second thought, better not,” Illya says, pretending to think hard about it. “Who knows what you might get up to if I’m not there to keep you in line.”

Napoleon shrugs. He glances down the hall, and if Illya isn’t mistaken his smile almost takes on a rueful quality. “Don’t worry, I’m too terrified of Gaby to say any more bad things about you.”  
  
“As you should be,” Gaby says, appearing in the doorway next to him. She glares at Napoleon, but with less fire than she used to. “Don’t you have someone else to bother?”

“Afraid not,” he answers. “And now I’m getting a two-for-one.”

She frowns at him for a minute, then turns to Illya. “I could use your opinion on something down in the lab, when you get a chance.”

“Sure thing,” Illya replies. “I’ll be down in a bit. Lunch today?”

“Not with him, is it?” Gaby asks, shooting a skeptical glance at the man next to her.

Napoleon smiles at her sarcastically. “You’re safe from having to deal with me.”

“Then yes, I’ll see you later,” she tells Illya. Before she turns to leave she looks back at Napoleon. “You, behave yourself.”  
  
“Yes, ma’am,” he retorts.

The look on Napoleon’s face as he watches her go is telling, now that Illya knows that they used to be close. His expression is briefly full of regret and pain and a wistfulness that plainly shows how much he misses her friendship. Illya wonders if Gaby could ever forgive him. It would be nice, he thinks selfishly, if his friends could be friends again.

“Ah, I think Lincoln is back,” Napoleon says suddenly, interrupting Illya’s musings. “I’ll see you at the talk?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

Napoleon disappears again, and Illya is left to his grading and his thoughts, neither of which are very appealing right now. Somehow, the grading seems better than the thinking, so he turns back to the paper in front of him and tries to read the first paragraph for the fifth time.

He gets halfway through the first page before it really occurs to him that this particular paper appears to be about allusions in Ovid’s _Amores_ , and really, he doesn’t need that right now. He shuffles the papers, looking for something safer. Ironically, one of the other students had chosen to write about Cicero’s treatise on friendship, _De Amicitia_. Maybe it will put him in the right frame of mind (though he’s not holding his breath). Friendship is good, he tells himself. He can work with friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think I was going to let them get together that quickly, right?? This is a slow burn, after all, and there is so much more pining to be had. 😂 And no, I simply could not resist a Superman reference. Sorry not sorry, as Illya says.
> 
> Thank you so so much again for all your comments and kudos. Your support means a lot to me, especially considering how tiny and sleepy this fandom is now. It amazing to know that there are other people still out there that are as gone as these two boys as I am.


	4. SCS Conference, Toronto, January

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conference time, a year later; or, fooling yourself is sometimes easier than fooling other people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to the tmfu tumblr group chat for inspiration to include an outsider POV from their grad students. I'm sure many of you will recognize the student's names. 😂 PS: I had too much fun with writing this.

_Amor tussisque non celantur_  
(Love, and a cough, are not concealed)  
—Ovid

Mark: OMG are you seeing this talk

April: I’m sitting two rows down from you aren’t I

Mark: wtf is going on

Mark: I’ve never seen Solo give a talk like this

Mark: I thought his seminar for our dept was oddly nice

Mark: this is insane

April: idk what to tell you, he talks about Kuryakin a lot

April: and not in the way he used to

April: it’s a little weird ngl

Mark: did I tell you that some of the undergrads saw them together at the pub after our dinner

April: NO

April: OMG

April: WHAT

Mark: they invited KnS to sit with them because undergrads

Mark: said they seemed very “close” 🤔

April: wtf are they friends now?

Mark: or something more??

April: but Kuryakin isn’t gay, is he?

Mark: if you’re asking me if I know anything about my advisor’s sexuality I’m gonna give you a hard no

Mark: he’s a monk for all I know

April: he and Teller aren’t a couple?

Mark: nah they’re just super good friends

Mark: she was dating some gender studies postdoc for a while but idk if they’re still a thing

April: 🤯

Mark: did you just hear that little chuckle 😏

April: they’re totally fucking

Mark: OMG April stop

Mark: I do NOT want to be thinking about that 😣

April: you’re the one who brought it up

Mark: plz forget I ever said anything

April: too late

* * *

April thinks truer words have never been spoken. Or texted, as the case may be. Now that Mark has put the idea into her head, she can’t help but notice that Solo and Kuryakin are spending a _lot_ of time together. Any time at all would be something, considering their history, but now whenever Kuryakin isn’t with Teller, he’s with Solo. Sometimes the three of them can even be spotted together, even though it’s clear Teller does not share her boss’s newfound enthusiasm for April’s advisor. Last year it had seemed that tensions were cooling down—they’d been cautiously friendly around each other, and Solo had actually introduced April to Kuryakin for the first time, despite the fact that Mark had introduced her to his advisor years ago—but this year things appear to be heating up again in an entirely different way.

It’s even harder to ignore when Solo invites her and James, his other student, to dinner. That in and of itself isn’t unusual—he usually takes them to dinner at some point during the conference—but when they show up at the gastropub near the hotel they’re shocked to find Kuryakin and his three students already there. With Solo. It’s a brave new world, April thinks.

She shoots a significant glance at Mark and slides into the empty seat next to him, leaving James to fend for himself closer to their advisors. Solo throws them a brief wave of greeting but hardly diverts from the conversation he’s already embroiled in with Kuryakin.

“Did you know this was happening?” she hisses at Mark. Two of the other students are sitting between them and their advisors, so they’re reasonably sheltered and the noise of the gastropub masks their voices.

Mark shakes his head, looking at her somewhat wide-eyed. “No clue.”

“How long have they been like that?” She nods down the table to where they’re sitting at right angles. They’re both leaned toward each other, heads slightly bowed, and apparently in their own little world.

“Since we got here,” Emma, Kuryakin’s other student who is currently sitting across from her, answers. “We got a similar greeting as you two.”

Before they can get into a discussion about how flipping weird this all is, the waiter appears to take their drink orders. They order their beers and watch as their advisors both fumble with the single draft list. Apparently they hadn’t even bothered to look at it before getting wrapped up in a discussion of their research. Typical. Their heads bow closer together as they both try to read the menu at once, and Mark kicks April in the shin under the table. After a moment Kuryakin appears to give up, leaning back again.

“I’ll just have whatever you’re having, Cowboy,” he says.

_Cowboy??_ Emma mouths at April incredulously, as if April has any idea where that comes from. She gives a confused shrug in response and a small head shake. The nickname is as unexpected as it is incongruous. How on Earth did Solo, he of the designer suits and perfect hair, earn the moniker of _Cowboy_? Her brain helpfully supplies an image of Solo in a cowboy hat and chaps on a horse, and she has to bite the inside of her cheek hard to keep from cracking up.

“We’ll both have the Scotch-barrel aged dubbel,” Solo tells the waiter with a polite smile.

This appears to amuse Kuryakin. “I should have known.”

“Yes, you’re very smart, Peril,” Solo retorts snarkily.

_Peril_ at least makes some more sense, April thinks. Kuryakin has certainly been a perilous to her advisor in the past, although he’s looking less and less so with each passing moment.

Somehow the two of them manage to halt whatever discussion they’d been having long enough to actually consider the menu, and when they’ve made their decision their advisors apparently decide that maybe they should actually talk to the students that they invited for dinner. They chat about the conference and their research, Solo tells a funny story from his grad school days that somehow she hasn’t heard yet, then Kuryakin actually tells a story too. It’s pleasant and fun and oddly normal, as if they hadn’t been mortal enemies until a year ago.

Their food comes—a burger and fries for Kuryakin, steak and risotto for Solo—and the students watch in amazement as Solo thieves fries from Kuryakin’s plate and Kuryakin stabs a bite of steak that Solo had ostensibly cut for himself. Finally the faculty return to their conversation and leave the students to their own, and it’s not long before the topic of discussion returns to their advisors.

“So where do you think ‘Cowboy’ comes from?” Emma whispers conspiratorially. “Is he originally from out west?”  
  
April shakes her head as she chews a bite of her food thoughtfully. “No, he's from Minnesota. No cowboys in his past as far as I know.” She pauses for a moment, then says what she’s thinking anyway. “D’you think it’s some kind of sex thing?”

“ _Oh my god,_ _April!_ ” Mark shouts, clearly shocked she could say such a thing. All eyes at their table, and several at those around them, turn to look at the students.

“Er, don’t mind him,” she says, trying to ignore the flush of heat in her face, “just got excited about the Melian Dialogue.”

Solo huffs out a laugh, shaking his head, clearly not at all convinced by this explanation. Then he steals a few more fries from Kuryakin. Slowly, the conversations around them pick up again.

“You can’t just say things like that,” Mark hisses, his gaze shooting daggers at her.

April shrugs and grins at him. It’s not like she particularly enjoys thinking about her advisor that way either, but making Mark squirm is worth it.

“I think they make a cute couple,” Emma offers in an attempt to reign the conversation back from the vulgar. “Although Chicago to Connecticut would be a pain.”  
  
“You think that one of them would move eventually?” April asks. It’s not something she’d thought of before, and honestly it’s premature to be thinking it now. Still, she can’t help but run scenarios in her head. Would she move with Solo if he left? Or stay at Yale and get a new primary advisor?

Emma shrugs. “Might want to, but I’m sure it wouldn’t be easy. The two-body problem has to be even harder for same-sex couples. Solo’s up for tenure this year too, right?”

“Yup,” April confirms with a nod. “From what I understand he should get it, but I guess you never know. Not like he confides that kind of shit to us.”

“Same,” Mark says. “Kuryakin does seem stressed about it, though.”

“Wouldn’t you be? I think everyone gets stressed about tenure,” April replies, and everyone nods.

The conversation shifts, as they do naturally, to job markets and postdocs—Emma’s finishing up and interviewing for things now—and the potential relationship between their advisors is forgotten about for the time being. After the dinner wraps up there is a brief tussle over the bill, which it seems that Solo wins, and everyone prepares to depart. To the surprise of absolutely no one at this point, Solo and Kuryakin bid their students farewell and wander off down the sidewalk together back towards the hotel. As the grad students stand around and discuss what bar to go to next, April watches the two men walk nearly shoulder to shoulder. Something Kuryakin says makes Solo burst into laughter, and it’s that loose and unfettered one that he only lets out around certain people. Then Solo sways slightly, purposefully, so that his shoulder bumps into Kuryakin’s, and Kuryakin turns his head to grin at him. The small show of affection makes her smile, and she thinks Emma is right. They do make a cute couple.

* * *

“Look, the interaction between the Massilians and Caesar was clearly modeled after Thucydides,” Illya says, waving his hands animatedly in front of him.

Napoleon cocks his head and furrows his brow at his companion. “Really? You don’t see the mythological influences on the depiction of Caesar in the narrative?”

“I do,” Illya allows, “but Caesar’s response to the Massilian speech certainly recalls that of the Athenians, don’t you think?”  
  
“Hmm, I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” Napoleon muses.

They’ve been arguing about the _Pharsalia_ since they left their students outside the gastropub several blocks ago. Both of them had sat in on a talk earlier that day about the text, and while neither of them exactly agreed with the speaker, they also didn’t quite agree with each other, either. In years past such a conversation—if it had happened at all—would have been strained, devolving rapidly into sniping and insults as each tried to come out on top. Napoleon can almost (almost) envision the snide retorts they would have slung like daggers, but he’d rather not.

No, he’d much rather listen to the passion in Illya’s voice and hear it as alluring instead of offensive, much rather admire his insight than curse it. Much rather convince and let himself be convinced until they meet each other in some middle ground that had seemingly sprung up newly-formed in the gulf between them.

Napoleon is so wrapped up in listening to Illya talk about Lucan that he’s not really paying much attention to their surroundings. There’s a shortcut back to the conference hotel that they’ve been taking for days now, a little almost-blind alley fairly crammed with dumpsters and boxes from the stores on either side of it. He’s warned his students against taking it after nightfall; they’re in a pretty nice area of Toronto, but you never know. Of course he doesn’t listen to his own advice, especially when he’s walking with Illya, because _really_ , who is going to going to try to mug the two of them?  
  
The guy that appears in their path at that moment, apparently. He ducks out from behind a dumpster, baseball cap tugged low over his eyes as he twitches erratically. _Great_.

“Gimme your cash,” he demands, his voice nasally and higher-pitched than expected.

Napoleon’s initial reaction, quite honestly, is confusion. This guy is scrawny enough that Napoleon himself is probably double his weight, and that’s leaving out the Russian giant standing next to him. He glances up at Illya and finds his friend giving him a similarly bewildered expression.

“All the same, we’d rather not,” Napoleon says easily, tucking his hands into his pockets.

“ _Do it_ ,” he hisses. He takes an abortive step forward. “Don’t make me—”

“Make you what?” Illya rumbles. “There are two of us, and one of you.”

The mugger curses and twists slightly, and then the metal barrel of a handgun glints in the dim glow of the streetlights. His hands shake as he holds it out in front of him, jerking it back and forth between Napoleon and Illya.

_Fuck_. The paperwork is going to be a nightmare—the cash he has on hand is an advance from the college for the conference—but it is certainly not worth this. Napoleon pulls out his hands and puts them up in front of him, backing away slightly, and sees Illya do something similar beside him.  
  
“Ok, look. You can have the cash,” he says placatingly.

The gun barrel is jittering all over the place, which is far more alarming than anything else right now. Napoleon can see the guy’s finger is on the trigger guard, but one wrong jerk and this could end really badly. He uses one hand to pull out his wallet and extract the stack of bills within it, then begins extending his hand slowly toward the mugger. The guy snatches it away and crams it in his pocket, then turns toward Illya.

“You too. And the watch. Gimme the watch.”

Napoleon can almost feel something shift in the air, then. Illya has his hand still partway in his wallet, and Napoleon watches as a tremor works its way down to his fingers. The watch in question is just visible beyond the edge of his jacket, the light reflecting off its glass face. Napoleon has noticed it before, of course, but only because it’s reasonably out of place with the rest of Illya’s attire. It looks old, maybe Soviet, fairly nice but not too valuable. The glass face is scratched, the metal scuffed, and the leather band looks like it’s been replaced several times. He’s not really sure why the mugger would latch onto it—Napoleon’s own watch would likely yield a much larger sum—but he has.

“No,” Illya answers, his voice deadly quiet. “You can have cash. Not the watch.” His face is so cold and stark in that moment that the mugger actually takes a step backwards before he realizes he’s the one with a gun.

“Gimme the fucking watch!” the guy almost whines, shaking the gun at Illya.

“Illya,” Napoleon says quietly, feeling the tension rise. He doesn’t know the story behind the watch, hasn’t asked yet, but surely it’s not worth dying over. Surely…

“No,” Illya repeats as he looks at Napoleon. His eyes are wide and there’s something wild in them. Fear and pain and something else Napoleon can’t quite place. “I can’t.”

Well, fuck. Napoleon takes a split second to survey the scene. The mugger is a few paces from Illya, watching him intently, the gun trained on his chest but jittering in a broad arc. The safety is off but the mugger’s finger is still on the guard. Napoleon hasn’t done this in a long time, but it’s gotta be like riding a bike, right?

He takes a step forward and the mugger snaps his attention onto him, pulling the gun away from Illya. The barrel swings off to the right, enough that the wound wouldn’t catch him in the heart, and he chooses that moment to act. A dart forward, hands placed just so, and then the gun is safely in his grasp, turned back on the mugger. No shots fired. He’s still got it. He might feel smug if he wasn’t desperately trying to keep his own hands from shaking.

“Care to rethink that?” he asks the mugger. The guy’s bloodshot eyes go wide and he skitters backward, then takes off running at top speed out of the alleyway. Napoleon watches him go before lowering the gun and deploying the safety. “Damn. He still has all my cash.”

“Cowboy, what—?” Illya chokes out beside him. Napoleon turns to see him staring with no small amount of shock. “What was that?”

They’ve just been threatened at gunpoint and the adrenaline is still surging through his system, but Napoleon can’t help but grin a bit. “Impressed?”

“How did you learn to do that?”

“C’mon, let’s find a police station and get rid of this thing,” he says instead of answering. “I’ll tell you on the way if you tell me why that watch is worth dying for.”

Illya give a small nod. “Ok,” he breathes. “Sure.”

Napoleon ejects the magazine and the loaded round from the gun and stashes all of it in his coat pocket as best he can. A second of googling tells them that there’s a police station a few blocks away, so they set off in that direction. They walk in tense silence at first, both too keyed up to speak, but as the minutes pass Napoleon can almost feel the tension slowly leaving Illya’s body.

“It’s all I have left of my father,” Illya says quietly, when he’s ready. “He was arrested for corruption when I was young, after the dissolution of the USSR. A political prisoner. I still don’t know where he is, or if he’s even alive.”

It is a completely unexpected answer. Napoleon knows a little about his childhood in Russia from their recent conversations, knows that Illya grew up with only his mother, but up until this point he’s never spoken of his father. Completely understandably, as it turns out.

“I’m sorry, Peril,” Napoleon replies softly, though the words aren’t enough. He wants to hug the other man, but for one he doesn’t know if Illya would be receptive to that, and for another he still has an unloaded gun in his coat pocket that he’d rather get rid of sooner than later. He settles for placing a hand on Illya’s shoulder and giving him what he hopes his a comforting squeeze.

Illya sniffs once and juts his chin into the air. “It is what it is. But… I cannot lose what is left.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Napoleon says, and he does. He might not have had the best relationship with his own father, particularly after he came out, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t understand the impulse to preserve some connection.

Another block passes in silence before Illya clears his throat. “Your turn.”

“Basic training. I joined the army after 9/11,” Napoleon tells him. “I was a stupid, idealistic kid sucker punched by that day and only too ready to buy into the nationalistic rhetoric. Didn’t last long, though. Only deployed for six months before an IED caught me in the thigh, and I took the discharge happily. Went off to college after that, never looked back.”

Napoleon doesn’t turn to look at his companion, but he can feel the surprise on Illya’s face nonetheless. “I had no idea.”  
  
“Not many do. Not something I’m too proud of, to be honest,” he says with a shrug. “Gaby knows, but I’m guessing it never came up.”

“Your personal history is not something we often discuss, Cowboy,” Illya replies wryly.

“I’ll try not to feel too hurt by that,” he grins.

They lapse into silence until they’re nearly outside the police station, and Illya speaks again. “Thank you, Cowboy. I was… that was stupid of me. It’s just a watch.”

“It’s not,” Napoleon argues, shaking his head. “It’s more than that.”

“It’s not worth—” Illya’s voice clips off, strained, and Napoleon glances up to see him staring fixedly at the ground with hands jammed in his pockets. “It’s not worth your life.”

“I was the one that made that stupid decision, not you,” Napoleon retorts. “Adrenaline makes you do crazy things.”

_And love_ , a small voice inside him adds unhelpfully, _that’s what makes you really do stupid things_. Because if he was honest with himself, he would have never done that for anyone else. As he had stood there, seeing the look on Illya’s face at the prospect of losing his watch, he hadn’t thought about how insane his plan was. He’d just acted. He could have been injured, or worse, but the only thing that had mattered in that moment was Illya. The idea is more terrifying than the actual encounter had been.

“Still. It means a lot, what you did,” Illya says softly, looking up at him now. “So, thank you.”

They’ve paused in front of the door to the station, and Napoleon can feel the gun heavy in his pocket, but he can’t quite move. There’s something vulnerable in Illya’s eyes that fixes him in place, something that Napoleon has to try really hard not to read too much into. He’s just grateful, is all. Just coming down off the adrenaline high.

“Any time, Peril,” he says, which is maybe not a good thing to admit. He takes a deep breath and tries to bottle up the feelings that are pushing their way to the surface. “So, how efficient do you think the Canadian police are?”  
  
Illya sighs, and Napoleon knows he’s envisioning the rest of their night, giving statements and filling out paperwork. “It’s probably too much to hope that we’ll be out of here in time for drinks, isn’t it?”  
  
“Now now, Peril,” Napoleon chides. “There’s always time for drinks. And I’m pretty sure I’ve earned them tonight.”

* * *

The lights in the rooms for the talks really aren’t bright enough to keep drowsiness from overtaking her, and April finds herself seriously contemplating skipping the rest of the session in favor of a nap. She’d stayed out far too late the previous night with the other grad students; they’d met up with a cluster of doctoral students from other schools and had discovered that they weren’t the only people gossiping about Solo and Kuryakin. Honestly, sometimes it seems like people come to the conference more for the drama than for the actual research.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket and she fishes it out, staring down at the message from Mark that’s just come in.

**I was supposed to meet with K now about my talk tomorrow but *someone* is monopolizing his attention**

**Just interrupt them** , she texts back, rolling her eyes as she does. **You’re being ridiculous**

He doesn’t reply immediately and she thinks maybe he actually grew a pair, but then a new message pops up on her screen. It’s a photo, taken surreptitiously at an odd angle but clear and decently lit nonetheless, of Solo and Kuryakin standing together in one of the side hallways of the conference hotel. Kuryakin is leaning up one shoulder against the wall and watching as Solo gesticulates wildly in that way he always does when he gets really into a conversation.

The message that accompanies the photo reads, **would YOU interrupt them?**

She taps the photo curiously and zooms into their faces, both in profile, and all at once she’s torn by the desire to either delete the photo immediately or to save it forever. It feels uncomfortably intimate, what she sees there. Solo is in the middle of speaking, but that doesn’t temper the wide, radiant grin on his face. He smiles a lot, of course, but not like this. April knows she’s never seen him so blatantly _happy_ before, at least not before this conference. Then there’s Kuryakin, who seems to be actually laughing; for a moment she wonders if it’s the first time that’s been caught in a photo. The corners of his eyes are crinkled in delight at whatever Solo is saying, his smile big enough to show a hint of teeth. Even in profile, she can see enough of their eyes to know they hold something unmistakable. They look like more than very good friends. They look like…

**I take it back** , she messages Mark.  
**maybe they’re not fucking**  
**yet**  
**but they’re definitely in love**

April saves the photo. Maybe, if things go the way it looks like they’re going, she’ll give it to Solo after she defends her dissertation. Frame it and everything, as a thank you. She thinks he’d like that.

* * *

“You should be careful,” Gaby says, offhand, while they’re at lunch.

Illya has just taken a rather large bite of his burger, so he cocks an eyebrow at her as he chews like he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Who knows, maybe he doesn’t. Sometimes he can be absurdly naïve about these things.

“What?” he prompts, swallowing and dipping his head slightly.

“You know what,” she answers, stealing a fry from his pile. “With him.”

His response to this is a dramatic sigh as he sets his burger down on his plate. “I thought we’d been through this.”

“That was before. This is now. Things have changed.”

“Nothing has changed,” he huffs. He grabs a few fries and gestures at her with them. “We’re friends.”

Gaby can’t help but roll her eyes at this assertion. Anyone with half a brain cell can see that their relationship has shifted significantly, and as it happens there are plenty of people at the conference with more than a few brain cells. Even if her best friend and _former_ best friend (seriously, what did she do to deserve this?) don’t seem to be currently among them.

“That in and of itself is a change,” she points out. “But your _friendship_ isn’t what I’m talking about. You’re spending a lot of time together.”

“So?”

“So, people are talking.”

Illya takes a deep breath of annoyance and sits back in his chair, folding his arms in front of his chest defensively. “I don’t care if people are talking. People are always talking. They talked before, when we hated each other. They talk now. It means nothing.”

“If you really think that, fine,” she says, shrugging. “Different kind of gossip, though.”

“It’s all the same.” He waves his hand dismissively at her and picks up his burger again.

Gaby briefly wonders if he’s being purposefully dense, or if he’s really that oblivious. She leans forward and looks at him critically, trying to read the answer in his face. Unfortunately, it seems very likely that he’s just that oblivious. She sighs heavily. “I’m just saying, it’s going to be hard to protect the privacy you’ve worked so hard to maintain if you keep doing what you’re doing.”

“Whatever you think is going on, it’s not,” he insists stubbornly.

“Then maybe you two should stop making heart eyes at each other from across meeting, yeah?” she snaps. The suggestion nets her a exaggerated eye roll, like she expected it would. She holds up a hand before he can protest. “I know, I know. Nothing is happening. You’d tell me, though, right? If anything _was_ happening? Just because it’s Solo doesn’t mean you can’t talk to me about it.”

Illya frowns at her. “I know, Gaby. It’s nothing, I promise.”

Is that supposed to convince her, or himself, she wonders. His stubborn denial of the obvious is worrying, because it’s often a prelude to doing stupid things. Thus far she’s pretty sure nothing has actually happened between them, but she’s not blind, and neither are the rest of the conference’s attendees. She knows the gossip has been tempered because everyone assumes Illya is straight, but everyone also knows that Solo is not. They’re probably waiting for some dramatic blow-up fueled by too much liquor in which Solo makes a move and Illya slugs him, she thinks bitterly. Fucking busybodies.

Well, if Illya isn’t going to listen to her, maybe she can get through to Solo. Not that she relishes the idea of talking to him at all, and the thought of having to talk about this, of all things, is particularly abhorrent.

It takes another day before she can corner him without Illya or anyone else around. Of course, he’d just been with Illya moments before, until Illya had another meeting to get to. They’d been standing at one of the high tables set up in the exhibitor hall, both leaning forward onto it with folded arms, inspecting some book that one of them probably just purchased. Their faces were mere inches apart, and she had watched as Solo pointed something out then looked up at Illya as if for approval. Illya had been so focused on the book that he hadn’t seen Solo’s expression, but it’d been right there for anyone else in the room to observe.

It would be adorable if it weren’t fucking _Solo_. She sighs, exasperated. Would it kill them to cool it a bit?

As soon as Illya leaves she makes her move, not wanting to lose her chance to one of Solo’s admirers. He’s clearly in a disgustingly good mood when she approaches him, a wide smile on his face that he can’t quite control and the barest flush of pink on his cheeks. Some of the conference rooms run hot, but she doesn’t think for a second that’s what’s behind the color.

“Gaby!” he exclaims, not hiding his surprise at her approach. “Illya just went to a meeting with Pete Anderson, if you’re looking for him.”

“I’m not,” she says, letting a small scowl curl her lips. “I’m looking for you.”

This manages to make the smile slip from his features, although it wobbles around the corners of his mouth, unwilling to fully dissipate. “Oh. What can I do for you?”

“You can be more careful, that’s what.”

“Wha— What are you talking about?” he asks, clearly confused.

_Oh good, him too_ , she thinks. Gaby sighs in frustration. “You. Illya. Can you try harder to make it so that the entire conference doesn’t know you want to jump his bones?”

“I— I don’t think— I’m not—” he stammers uncharacteristically, eyes going slightly wide.

_What. The. Fuck_ , she thinks, blinking slowly at him as he flounders. Who is this person and what did he do with Napoleon Solo?

It’s enough to make her pause. Gaby had seen Solo in what she thought was all his incarnations: flirting with potential lovers, mooning over crushes, charming recurring booty-calls, doting on long-term partners. No matter what, he’d always been completely unflappable, even when ostensibly over the moon about someone. In fact, her experience with Solo in relationships was that he became even more shut down than usual, at least when he was around other people. Smooth and courteous and outwardly (appropriately) affectionate, but always keeping a brutally tight rein on his emotions. It had become a point of contention between them even before Illya had, when she had tried to argue with him about how messed up his relationship with Victoria was while he was still mired in it.

“Don’t lie to me, Solo. I know you,” she says, shaking her head at him. “I’ve seen what happens when you get infatuated with someone. Though I have to say I’ve never seen you quite like this.”

Solo takes her statement as an opening and not the condemnation it is. “See? You don’t know. We’re _friends_ , Gaby. That’s it. Why is that so hard for everyone to understand?”

His face is doing the same thing that Illya’s had, when he’d been trying to convince her of the same fact, and Gaby really doesn’t feel like dignifying that with an answer. She knows them both well enough to know when they’re lying, and it’s becoming increasingly obvious that they are, in fact, lying to themselves. Well, she tried.

“Ok,” she allows, “in that case, I don’t have to tell you that if you break his heart, I will end you. Understood?”  
  
“Gaby—”

_“Understood?”_

Solo stares at her for a second, mouth hanging slightly open. She watches as his jaw closes slowly and his throat bobs with a forceful swallow. He gives a little nod of comprehension.

“Good,” she says lightly, offering him a friendly smile. As friendly as she can make it, anyway. “See you around, I’m sure.”

“Yeah,” he replies faintly, but she’s already turned away to go find someone less frustrating to talk to.

These boys are going to be the death of her, she thinks grimly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this chapter was going to be all outside perspective, but then I couldn't resist throwing in a little section to delve into some canon-esque backstory for our boys.
> 
> Thank you once again for your comments and support on this! Even the smallest one absolutely lights up my day. 😊


	5. New York Visit, February

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things move forward and back again; or, past mistakes always choose the wrong time to rear their ugly head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit of a rollercoaster, and kicks off the main conflict of the story. I fully expect no one will be happy with me at the end of this one, but well, I did promise angst in the tags (and also a happy ending, so don't worry!)

_Amicitia semper prodest, amor et nocet._  
(Friendship always benefits, love sometimes injures)  
—Seneca and Publilius Syrus

There’s something about New York City in the winter. Most people can understand the appeal of the city around Christmastime, when the streets are draped in festive lights, store windows are festooned with shiny displays, and holiday markets spring up in the parks and squares, but February is another story. The lights that linger aren’t quite enough to chase away the grey, and the filth of the city accumulates in the salty slush on the sidewalks and in the gutters.

Illya thinks he loves it even more, this way. He loves seeing the city stripped down and raw, without fanfare or conceit, rough edges visible until the next snowfall comes and covers them over in a soft white blanket. As pretty as the snow is in front of the massive tree at Rockefeller Center in December, it feels more sacred in February.

(One could make a similar argument about Chicago, but as in so many things, Chicago is different. Not better or worse, just… different. Illya loves Chicago, but he might love New York just a bit more. Not that he would admit that to anyone from either city.)

It’s snowing now; fat, heavy flakes that collect in clumps on his shoulders as he stands outside the restaurant. There’s almost no wind, so the flakes take the lazy route to the ground, twisting and turning as they go. Illya watches them, trying to concentrate on the snow instead of the thrill of anticipation that’s lurking somewhere behind his ribs.

“So you do have a winter coat,” Napoleon says by way of greeting as he walks up behind Illya. “Just not a real winter hat.”

Illya turns to find his friend quite well bundled up against the weather, a finely-knit hat and scarf paired with his wool coat and his hands jammed deep in his pockets. The smile he gives Illya is so brilliant that it makes his breath catch in his throat and his chest feel uncomfortably tight. The feeling will dissipate, he knows, fading into a sense of warm comfort like it did when he’d seen Napoleon at the conference after a couple of months apart. For now he lets it run its course, shaping his mouth into a wide grin that probably gives far too much away. No one is here to see it except Napoleon, though.

(The fact that _that_ doesn’t bother him is something to dwell on another time.)

“My hat is fine,” he retorts, glancing up at the brim of the flat newsboy-style cap that he favors. “It’s not that cold.”

Napoleon shakes the accumulated snow off his shoulders and arms, which was rather pointless since it immediately starts collecting again. “I assume that’s why you’re not waiting inside like a normal person?”

“Something like that,” Illya says.

Napoleon shakes his head fondly and moves to the door, holding it open for Illya. It’s just something he does, Illya reminds himself as he ducks through it, it doesn’t mean anything. This isn’t a date, no matter how much it looks—or feels—like one. They’d gone out to plenty of meals together at the conference, though somehow the thin veneer of the meetings kept it from feeling quite like this. It was that thought that he had clung to when Napoleon had called him to chat about seeing him on his upcoming trip.

“They’re not taking you to dinner?” Napoleon had asked incredulously.

“On the second day,” Illya told him. “After the lecture. Said they’d give me the first night to settle in.”  
  
Napoleon had scoffed audibly over the phone. “You still have to eat. I’ll come down and we can go out somewhere near your hotel.”

“But the lecture’s not until the next day. You’re coming, right?” It came out sounding more anxious and needy than he intended, and he rushed to cover. “It’s ok if you can’t.”

“Of course I’m coming,” Napoleon said. “I’ll just go back to New Haven afterward. It’s not that far.”

“That’s a lot of travel for dinner, Cowboy.”

“Some people do that commute every work day of their lives, Peril. I can get stuff done on the train,” he’d argued. “Besides, if I don’t I’ll just have to fight with everyone else for your attention the next day. It’ll be worth it.”

Illya had nearly dropped the phone, which honestly would have been preferable to what he’d actually said. “You wouldn’t have to fight. I could ask them to leave lunch free,” he added lamely.

“Nonsense, Peril,” Napoleon had said, effectively ending the discussion. “I’m taking you to dinner.”

The memory leaves him warmer than the heat blasting at the entrance of the restaurant and he lets himself bask in it for just a moment. He can no longer lie to himself and pretend that he feels nothing more than friendship for Napoleon Solo. The last few months had seen to that quite thoroughly. They’d been nearly inseparable at the conference and had talked constantly via phone, text, and email since then. The more time they spent together, the more Illya felt himself falling inexorably in love.

It really is most unfortunate, because it’s also abundantly clear that Napoleon only thinks of him as a friend. Apart from that one moment in Chicago—which Illya absolutely has _not_ spent hours replaying in his head, has not endlessly wondered what would have happened had he not run off like an absolute idiot—he’s shown no signs that he harbors any kind of romantic feelings toward Illya. Which is _fine_. He’s fine. He values the time he gets to spend with Napoleon, values their friendship, far too much to risk it by making some kind of stupid move.

He watches as Napoleon unwraps himself from all his outer layers and leaves them on the coat rack near the door, the snow on them already falling as drops of water to the floor. The suit he’s wearing tonight is a perfectly-cut navy pinstripe, double breasted, paired with a blue tie that perfectly matches the color of his eyes. Illya finds it impossible to believe that Napoleon doesn’t know what kind of effect this has. Had he chosen the outfit specifically for their dinner tonight? Had he considered how Illya would be transfixed all night, how that blue would practically haunt him—

_Right_. Enough of that. Illya pushes the thoughts from his mind and removes his own coat, brushing the snow off the top of his hat before he hangs it up.

“So how cold does it have to be before it’s actually cold?” Napoleon muses.

“Much colder than this,” Illya answers, furrowing his brow. “Aren’t you from Minnesota, Cowboy?”  
  
Napoleon gives him a curious look. “Doesn’t mean I like the cold any better. How’d you know that, anyway?”

“Gaby must have mentioned it at some point,” Illya lies. He doesn’t really remember how he knows, honestly, but it almost certainly wasn’t from Gaby.

If Napoleon had been intending to pursue that further, it’s interrupted when they approach the hostess for their table. “Reservation for Solo,” Napoleon tells her, and she collects a pair of menus and bustles off toward the back of the restaurant.

The inside is worked in wood and brick and black leather, with dim bulbs on the stamped-tin ceiling and candlelit tables packed close together. Somehow it manages to come across as both romantic and not, like the kind of place you could take a date or do a business deal, or, Illya supposes, go out for dinner with a completely platonic friend who you happen to be hopelessly gone for. If one happened to be in that situation.

The hostess leads them toward a cramped half-booth mere inches from the next table, but when they get close she pauses, takes one look at the table and one look back at Illya and Napoleon, then sensibly swerves to seat them at one nearby with considerably more legroom. Even so, their knees knock together under the table. The thrill he gets at this inadvertent and hardly intimate contact is frankly embarrassing.

“Can you imagine the first table she was going to take us to,” Napoleon says with a laugh as they settle in. “I’d have practically been in your lap.”

Illya tries not to choke on nothing at the mental image that elicits and nearly does not succeed. He’s suddenly very thankful for the dim lighting as his face heats, and he looks studiously down at the menu to cover it.

“I was thinking we could do the prix fixe,” Napoleon says, apparently oblivious to the turmoil he’s just caused. “Share a bottle of wine. Though this place does craft cocktails too, if you’re interested.”

“Wine’s good,” Illya manages. “I probably shouldn’t have too many drinks tonight. Not sure I should show up hungover to a public lecture at the AMNH.”

Napoleon hums through a small smile, glancing up at him as he inspects the wine list. “You are the more reasonable of the two of us, Peril. I suppose this lecture pretty much seals the deal, then? You’ll have the support of the department for tenure?”

“As much as tenure can be a ‘sealed deal’, I guess,” Illya allows. “Waverly says I needn’t worry.”

“Well then, you should do as your department chair says. We could celebrate. Just a little bit,” Napoleon says as he snaps the wine list closed with a grin.

“Isn’t that bad luck? Celebrating early?”

“Nah. Besides, we’ll just celebrate…” he thinks for a moment, “… the fact that you’re such hot shit that you got invited join a lecture series hosted by _the_ preeminent natural history museum in the country?”

Illya tries unsuccessfully to suppress the half-embarrassed, half-pleased smile forcing its way onto his face. “Hmm, you do know that Michaelson told me who suggested my name to them, right?”

Napoleon makes a face that Illya supposes is intended to look innocent, but instead just looks coy on his handsome features. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Peril.”

When the waiter turns up Napoleon order a bottle of French wine that Illya knows is probably far too expensive based on the look the waiter gives him. A few minutes later the sommelier appears cradling the bottle like a small child and congratulating Napoleon on his fine taste. It _is_ quite good, although Illya doesn’t know that he can really tell the difference past a certain point. Napoleon, on the other hand, is given over into a look of bliss that leaves Illya’s mouth dry and ignites a flame of desire deep in his gut. What he would not give to be the cause of that look.

“That good, huh Cowboy?” he says, trying to hide this discomfort in a smirk.

“Mmm, it’ll do,” Napoleon grins back. “You like it, right?”

“It’s delicious. How did you become such a wine snob, anyway?”  
  
“Snob?!” Napoleon scoffs, his expression full of fake offense. “Peril, you wound me. Can I help it if I prefer the finer things in life?”  
  
Honestly Illya’s not sure why he tries to hide the smiles anymore. Some lingering sense of propriety, no doubt, though he’s long since lost his hold on the serious, prickly exterior he’d cultivated for so long. Whenever Napoleon is around, he ends up grinninguncontrollably like an idiot.

“You prefer enthusiast? Aficionado? Connoisseur?” he teases. “I think that makes you more of a snob, no?”

The loose, delighted laugh that Napoleon gives him makes a warm rush of pleasure surge through his limbs to tingle in his fingers and toes. “I spent some time in France after my Fulbright was done,” Napoleon answers. “I was, ah, seeing an Italian who wasa bit of a snob, as you say. He dragged me around the country, complaining the whole time about French wine, but we had some amazing bottles.”

“Sounds like such a hardship,” Illya says dryly.

“Well, to be honest most of the trip was better forgotten, but I did come out of it with a love of French food and wine. Spent years saving what I could of my meager grad student stipend to buy a good bottle every once in a while.” He looks pensive, his gaze far away as he sips his wine, as if lost in a memory. Illya can’t tell if it’s a good one or not. “What about you, Peril?” he says after a moment, seemingly shaking it off. “Ever been to France?”

“Only to fly through,” Illya tells him. “Never left the airport.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. We’ll have to visit sometime. I could take you to my favorite restaurants, and the _art_ museums! Even leaving aside the Louvre—which we could not—we could spend all day in the Cluny alone.”

Whatever melancholy that had snuck into his demeanor earlier had fled, replaced by a spark of passion that was enthralling. But as infectious as his enthusiasm was, Illya’s brain had hung up on his second sentence and had gone blank on the third. Surely not even Napoleon would just casually suggest traveling together to Paris— _Paris_ , of all cities—and taking him out to his favorite restaurants and museums. That’s not something you do with someone who’s _just_ a friend, surely.

Napoleon is still gushing about Paris—no wait, now he’s suggesting side trips to the countryside, dear lord—and Illya nods weakly, smiling as best he can. It’s not that he doesn’t want to go to Paris with Napoleon. On the contrary, he wants nothing more at this moment, but if he confesses that he’s not sure if he’s going to be able to stop confessing.

He’s saved when the waiter comes to take their dinner orders, and thankfully the discussion of Paris is dropped after that. They get onto the topic of Illya’s fieldwork for a while, which segues into how they ended up working on similar topics and how they ended up in the field in the first place. They talk about Napoleon’s Roman civ course in college and Illya’s constant visits to the state library in Moscow to read every classics book in the collections. It’s really quite astounding: as many hours as they’ve spent talking before, somehow they never seem to run out of things to say to each other.

The end of their meal comes far too quickly. Illya takes solace in the fact that Napoleon appears to be trying to draw out eating his dessert. He takes tiny bites of his custard, orders a coffee and a Scotch and whatever else he can think of to prolong the evening.

Even so, before long they find themselves standing outside the restaurant, bundled in their coats again, neither moving. The snow has stopped now but it’s left several inches on the ground, turning into slush in high traffic areas but still pristine and sparkling on parked cars and tree branches and shop awnings.

“I guess I should probably catch the train back,” Napoleon says reluctantly. He kicks a clump of snow idly, but makes no move to actually leave. His mouth curls into a small smirk and he cocks an eyebrow at Illya. “Unless you have a better idea.”

_Don’t go,_ Illya thinks. _Come back to my hotel. Stay the night_.

It’s a terrible idea. Somehow it still bubbles up to hang on his lips, tempting him to just say it. He thinks of Napoleon talking about Paris. He thinks of the way their legs had pressed against each other all evening and neither of them had tried to avoid it. What if there’s more there? What if…

“Want to take a walk in the park?” he suggests instead. They’re right next to Central Park, and even though it’s cold and dark, it still seems like the more sane option.

“Why not?” Napoleon grins. “It’s freezing out and I’m not exactly dressed for a jaunt through the snow, but there’s a full moon and it is awfully pretty out right now.”  
  
“If you’d rather not—”

“No,” Napoleon cuts him off. The playful note is gone from his voice, and there’s something unexpectedly vulnerable in his eyes. “I very much want to. Besides,” he adds as they head off toward the park’s edge, the teasing sparkle returning to his face, “you’ll keep me warm if I get too cold, won’t you Peril?”

“Hmm, what else am I around for, if not to warm cold cowboys?” Illya manages a smirk, hoping it conveys a playfulness he doesn’t quite feel. There aren’t words to express how much he wants to be the person that keeps Napoleon warm.

“Well, you do make for half-decent conversation.”

“Half-decent? Is that all?” Illya laughs.

Napoleon shrugs with an affected nonchalance, but he can’t keep a smile from pulling at the corners of his mouth.

As could be expected, the park is near deserted. They pass someone walking a dog, a late-night jogger, someone hurrying quickly toward 5th Avenue, but most of the time it’s just the two of them meandering on the snowy paths. Before too long they encounter the edge of the lake and stroll south along the shore until they come to a small pavilion looking out over the water. By some mutual understanding they turn into it and walk to the railing, standing next to each other as they stare out across the lake. The full moon Napoleon mentioned earlier reflects off the snow, giving everything a soft, glimmering blue glow. Illya thinks he’s never seen a landscape look more magical.

A sharp bark of laughter cuts through the crisp air, and Illya can just see a couple across the water, highlighted in the moonlight next to an empty fountain. They chase each other around the open space, catching and pulling away as they whoop and squeal in delight. Then they appear to give up on their game, letting their arms wrap around each other and pulling into a kiss. It’s an intimate moment, and Illya feels like he shouldn’t be watching—clearly they’re not expecting to have an audience—but he can’t look away. He wonders if Napoleon is watching too, what he’s thinking about.

The couple pull out of their kiss and wander off, keeping their arms wrapped around each other. The muffled quiet that’s so characteristic of a snowy landscape returns, enveloping them in a blanket of silence that seems more oppressive than it had been before.

“How much has Gaby told you about… what happened between us?” Napoleon asks quietly.

Illya glances to where Napoleon stands next to him. He’s looking fixedly out into the darkness of the lake, his face drawn in something like pain. “Not much,” he answers.

Napoleon nods but doesn’t say any more right away. He presses his lips together slightly, like he’s trying to figure out how to put something into words. “I was pretty upset when she took the job with you,” he admits eventually. “It felt like such a betrayal. Said some things… well, it doesn’t matter what, really. I’d say I was young and impulsive, but that’s no excuse for hurting your best friend like that. We both hurt each other pretty badly.”

“You don’t have to tell me this, Cowboy,” Illya says softly. “It’s between you and her.”

“It is, and it isn’t,” he sighs. “We fought about you, Illya. Pretty sure that makes it your business, too. I just… felt like you should know why she’s particularly skeptical when it comes to our relationship. There’s a lot of history there.”

Illya nods slowly, unsure of how to feel about the whole thing. Being told that the rift between the two people you care about most in the world is fundamentally because of you is not an easy thing to take. At the same time, he can’t help but be hopeful. Surely it’s possible that they might be friends again some day, under the right circumstances.

“After your talk, in San Francisco, she told me some,” Illya says. “Pretty much what you’ve said here. But she didn’t tell me that I should stay away. I think she’s even thawed a bit, after the last meetings.”

“I’m not holding my breath,” Napoleon mutters, a sad smile playing on his features. “But I hope you’re right.”

They’ve been standing in one place long enough for the cold to seep in. Beside him, Napoleon’s body trembles as a shiver works it’s way through him and he leans ever-so-slightly closer. Illya wonders if he knows he’s doing it. Probably they should move, continue their walk. Probably they should part for the night and go their separate ways. Instead, Illya lifts his arm to wrap around Napoleon’s shoulders.

Just helping him stay warm, right?

Illya feels Napoleon tense slightly in surprise and he almost pulls away, but before he can Napoleon’s arm is sliding around behind his waist, pulling their bodies closer together. He knows that the intense heat that seems to bloom between them can’t be physically there, but that’s rapidly becoming impossible to believe. Napoleon shifts slightly so his body presses even more closely against Illya’s side, and Illya’s arm tightens around his shoulders.

For a moment, it feels like they are frozen in place. Neither of them really seem to be breathing, and Illya wonders if Napoleon can hear his heart hammering in his chest now that his face is practically pressed into the front of his shoulder. Surely it must be deafening.

“You really are warm, Peril,” Napoleon murmurs.

Illya doesn’t trust himself to speak. He feels Napoleon’s face tip up toward his and finds he can’t resist looking down to meet his gaze. What Illya sees in his eyes—that’s not the look of someone who’s only interested in friendship. It can’t be. As if Napoleon has just realized what he’s given away, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Illya doesn’t miss the slight hitch in it. He trembles again, and this time it doesn’t seem like it’s the cold.

_Fuck it_ , Illya thinks. He lifts his other hand to Napoleon’s face, gloved fingers brushing lightly over his cheek, and Napoleon’s lips part ever so slightly as he exhales heavily.

“Napoleon,” he breathes, and Napoleon’s eyes flutter open again.

Illya kisses him. It’s just the barest brush of lips at first, cool and dry in the winter air, but almost immediately Napoleon leans up into it, pressing his chilled nose into Illya’s cheek. His hand slips behind Napoleon’s neck almost of its own accord, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss. The warmth of his mouth is almost a shock compared to the frigid air, and he’s unable to suppress a moan as Napoleon’s tongue slides along his lower lip and then licks past his teeth to tangle with his own.

His phone rings, vibrating in his pocket, and while Illya is content to ignore it Napoleon must be able to feel it because he pulls back just enough to mumble, “should you get that?” against Illya’s lips.

“Probably nothing,” Illya mutters before chasing after Napoleon’s mouth. No one calls him anyway, and whatever it is it can’t be that pressing. It can’t be more important than this, than the feeling of Napoleon in his arms and the taste of him on his tongue.

A few moments later, it rings again. Illya curses and fishes the phone out of his pocket, not letting go of where his other arm is still wrapped around Napoleon’s shoulders. “It’s Gaby,” he huffs, rolling his eyes. “She’s probably just bored.”

Napoleon grins up at him, and the wide stretch of his smile sets Illya’s insides ablaze. “Mmm,” he hums, leaning forward to nuzzle against Illya’s neck. “Tell her you're busy.”

Illya manages to send a text saying just that, though if Napoleon keeps doing whatever he’s doing against his pulse he’s going to rapidly lose the ability to think at all. He moves to slip the phone back in his pocket again but before he can do it an answering text comes in.

**IMPORTANT** , it reads.  
**ANSWER THE DAMN PHONE.**

His arm drops away from Napoleon and he frowns down at the screen. What could possibly be so important this late at night? He takes a step backward and Napoleon reluctantly lets him go, head tipping as his brow furrows.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Illya can only shake his head. “I don’t know. She says it’s important.” As he’s staring at it, the phone rings again, and this time he answers it. “What’s going on?”

“Where are you? Are you alone?” Gaby asks immediately. Something in her voice puts him on edge immediately, but he can’t quite put his finger on what it is.

“No,” he answers, then thinks better of it. Gaby doesn’t need to know what he’s been up to at this moment, or who he’s with, given how upset she already sounds. “I mean, basically. I’m in the park.”

“The _park_? In February?” she says, apparently momentarily distracted by this information. “ _Why_? You know what, don’t answer that. It’s not important.”

“What’s wrong, Gaby?” Illya prompts. Napoleon is staring expectantly at him, eyes slightly wide, and Illya gives him a shrug.

“Ella just came to me, said she overheard a meeting in Waverly’s office. With _Victoria_. Illya, she brought a complaint against you for unprofessional conduct.”  
  
“ _What?_ ”

“She’s alleging inappropriate relationships with students, I don’t know where she gets the fucking _nerve_ , you’ve never done anything inappropriate in your _life_ ,” Gaby spits.

Momentarily it feels like she’s speaking the wrong language, like she’s slipped into German without him realizing it. He knows what the words mean, but he can’t process them, can’t apply them to himself. The cold seems to seep all the way in, chilling him to the core, but at the same time the world around him has completely fallen away.

“On what grounds?” Illya asks, surprised at how solid his own voice sounds.

“Some made-up bullshit about you drinking with current students, says she got it from an anonymous source. I _told_ Ella you barely even go out drinking ever, much less with students, and Waverly said that’s not against policy but apparently Victoria said it’s indicative of something more serious. Can you believe that? _Indicative_. That bitch.”

Drinking. With students. How could she possibly know…?

Illya blinks and his vision focuses again on the man standing in front of him. He looks worried. Concerned. It’s a good act, he thinks distantly. He wonders if Napoleon knew this was happening today, if they timed it so he’d be away from the department, the night before a major lecture. Just to fuck with his head.

“Gaby, I have to go,” he says, interrupting whatever rant she was in the middle of. “I’ll call you again later, ok?”

“Illya, what—?” she starts, clearly confused.

He hangs up on her and stares at Napoleon, daring him to speak. He feels the walls going up again, ones that had been slowly crumbling ever since he left Russia, ones that in the past year had almost been obliterated. Almost. Their foundations remain, and now he uses them to remove himself from the situation. To look at it with a critical eye; he’d always been so good at that before—he’s an academic, after all, it’s baked into his very being—but it is something he has decidedly failed at recently. And look where it got him.

“Peril, what’s going on? Are you ok?” Napoleon asks, so concerned. God, he’s good. “Illya, what happened?” He takes a step forward again, reaching out to put a hand on Illya’s arm.

“Don’t,” Illya says harshly, pulling away from his touch. “You know what happened.”  
  
At this, Napoleon looks utterly lost. “I don’t,” Napoleon pleads. “Illya, please, what’s wrong?”

It’s enough that for a moment Illya doubts. Is it possible he didn’t know? But no, he had to be behind this. “Victoria has brought an official complaint against me to Waverly,” he answers anyway.

“She _what?_ ” Napoleon gasps. “What the hell? What kind of complaint?”

“She’s alleging inappropriate relations with students. Based on information that I was out drinking with them recently.”

Illya watches as this information makes its way into Napoleon’s mind, eliciting a dramatic sequence of emotions across his face. Confusion, realization, shock, horror—and there it is—guilt.

“How did she know about that, Cowboy?” he asks coldly.  
  
Napleon’s mouth drops open, but nothing comes out at first. Illya thinks maybe he’s overdoing it a touch.

“I… I went to see her, after we _parted_ that night,” he says, struggling with the words. “I was drunk, it was a mistake—”

Illya hums skeptically, interrupting him. “You’ve been together still, all this time.”  
  
“What?” Napoleon says, clearly shocked at this statement. “No! I worked so hard to get away from her, Peril.”  
  
“Not _so_ hard, it seems,” Illya retorts. “Was any of this real, or was it all a game? Did you give me up over pillow talk?”  
  
Napoleon’s face crumples. He looks devastated by this accusation, and something deep within Illya begs him to relent. He shuts it down quickly. He can’t let himself be lured in, can’t leave his heart exposed like he’d been doing so carelessly.

“I could _never_ ,” Napoleon says brokenly. “This is real, all of it, I swear. Illya, I lo—” His voice clips off as he stops himself mid-word, his mouth hanging open like he himself was surprised by whatever he’d been about to say. After a moment he appears to gather himself, and when he speaks again his voice is more solid.

“I went there to tell her to leave you alone. To try to convince her to stop being so vindictive,” Napoleon explains. “I told her your students love you, and she asked how I knew, so I said we saw them in the bar. I _certainly_ didn’t tell her we were drinking with them, I promise. I don’t know how she got from there to inappropriate relations. We can fight this, Illya, she doesn’t have anything and she knows it.”

In the end, it’s the hope on Napoleon’s face when he says this last part that nearly breaks him. But even if Napoleon is telling the truth, he can’t do this, he just _can’t_. Everything he’s worked so hard for, everything he’s dreamed of, could be ripped away from him in a moment. Napoleon must know as well as he does that if the allegations go public it won’t matter if they’re real or not. He’s going to have to somehow prove a negative before they do, and it’s going to take everything he has to do it.

And the author of all of that is standing in front of him. The author of _so many_ of his miseries over the years. How could he have been so blind? If there’s one thing he cannot do now, it’s let whatever feelings he thought were there cloud his judgement. He grabs hold of the fury instead; lets its familiar, hard weight ground him.

“ _We’re_ not fighting anything,” he says finally. “You’ve done enough. Whatever this was, it’s over.”

He does not wait to see Napoleon’s reaction. He can guess what it would be, anyway. Illya turns and walks off through the snow, trying not to feel like he’s leaving a piece of himself behind as he does so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does it help to know that it actually took me a long time to write the last scene of this? I wrote the entirety of the next three chapters (the fallout & reconciliation) before I could bear writing this.
> 
> No? Ok then. 😅
> 
> I promise there are very good reasons for all of this angst, and it will be worth it in the end. Feel free to absolutely let me know if you're mad at me, lol, I love each and every one of your comments with my whole being.


	6. The Plan, Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon gets help from an unexpected place; or, On Friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for leaving you with a bit of an angst cliffhanger last chapter! The next two chapters are focused on the fallout for from both Napoleon's and Illya's perspectives; this chapter is Napoleon's, and I have to say it's actually one of my favorite chapters. I think you'll see why.

_Qui in amorem praecipitavit, pejus perit quam si saxo saliat_  
(He who plunges into love is more ruined than if he leapt from a rock)  
—Plautus

Because he’s apparently a masochist, Napoleon goes to Illya’s lecture the next day. Somehow the idea of _not_ going had been so much more painful, and he’d gotten on the train before he could talk himself out of it. He hadn’t been able to decide whether or not to call Illya that day—on one hand, he desperately wants to apologize and explain himself more, or better, or _something_ , but on the other, he hardly deserves to demand any space in Illya’s thoughts before such a large, important lecture—so in the end he’d composed a long email, almost deleted it three times, and finally sent it anyway.

The large hall is packed; he’d intended to sit in the back and stay out of sight, but somehow Illya’s eyes find his in the crowd in the moments before it starts. Even at a distance they’re hard, like chips of ice wrought from a glacier, and Napoleon thinks maybe he should leave, but he’s penned in. It's too late to go without a fuss, so he sits and listens.

It’s a lot more painful than he could have imagined. Illya talks about his fieldwork, and his own projects, but he also talks about Napoleon’s work and the ideas they’d cooked up over so many drinks at the conference, over half-cocked but enthusiastic emails and phone conversations over the last year. Napoleon knows that it would have been far too late for Illya to change anything for that day’s lecture, but even so, hearing it all put together is excruciating.

“But these are all rough ideas,” Illya says, and in that moment he looks up and meets Napoleon’s gaze. “Subject to change.”

Who knew that those three, little, seemingly innocuous words could completely rend his heart apart? _Look at everything you’ve lost_ , the voice inside him hisses. _Look at everything you destroyed._

And that’s just their professional ties. Napoleon slumps further down in the chair, willing the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

The following weeks pass in a blur. He’s busy putting together all the documents necessary for his tenure package, which is at once a welcome distraction and a horrible reminder of all the long conversations he and Illya had had. His myriad calls, texts, and emails go unanswered and eventually taper off as he finally accepts the reality of the situation.

Illya doesn’t want to talk to him. Which is totally understandable, even if continues to tear Napoleon apart. He hardly eats; he doesn’t sleep. It’s a good thing that everything leading up to his tenure package is completed, because if he’d been being evaluated on this semester he’d be toast. There’s nothing to do but wait on the grant, and so instead he spends hours obsessing over everything Illya had told him about his tenure process, trying to find a way to fix things from the outside.

Then, one night, staring at the ceiling in the darkness, he sees it. How had he not before? There’s one person in the way. One person laying down nails in the road, one person setting trip lines on the path. If he can take down Victoria, utterly discredit her, then her allegations would be thrown out. The moment he thinks of it, though, he realizes that it’s not something he can do alone.

The next day, he calls Gaby.

“Why do you still have this number?” she snaps at him as soon as she answers.

Honestly, Napoleon hadn’t quite been expecting her to pick up the phone. He thought he’d have to needle her for days before she deigned to talk to him, and he can’t decide whether he thinks it’s a good thing or a bad thing that she answered on the first call.

“Because apparently I never delete anyone’s number from my phone,” he retorts testily before he remembers that he’s relying on her not hanging up on him. “Why do you still have mine?”

She huffs over the line. “Same. What do you want?”

“I need your help, Gaby.”

“I’m not helping you apologize,” she snarls. “Don’t you remember what I told you in Toronto? You’re lucky you’re still breathing.”

“I know, I know, that’s not what I’m asking,” he says in a rush. “Just give me a minute to explain, and if you still want to tell me to fuck off, then go right ahead.”

The line is silent for a long moment, and Napoleon briefly wonders if she’s set the phone down without hanging up and walked off. It wouldn’t really surprise him. “Well?” she prompts. “Spit it out.”

“I need your help taking down Victoria. For good.”

There’s another beat of silence. Gaby exhales heavily, the kind of sigh you make when you’re frustrated by a good idea. “I’m listening,” she says, not bothering to hide the reluctance in her voice.

“Look, I know Victoria better than anyone. She used to talk about things, when we were together, these _arrangements_ she’d made with students to help them get an A in her class. And at the time I think I didn’t want to believe it was anything more than extra office hours or something, but after we split I realized that wasn’t it.”

“Are you saying she was sleeping with these students?” Gaby asks incredulously.

“No no,” he says quickly, “nothing like that. It’s got to be money. She pretends that the inheritance she got from her family allows her to live the way she does, but it ran out a while ago. I think she’s taking payments in exchange for grades. I’ve been pretty sure for a while now, actually.”  
  
“So why haven’t you said anything before this?”  
  
“I never had any _proof_ ,” Napoleon sighs. “She was always so careful. That’s why I need your help, someone inside the department.”

Gaby hums as if considering this, and he knows this is one shot to convince her. If she hangs up now, that will be it, he won’t get another chance to fix this.

“If Victoria goes down, the concerns she raised about Illya’s tenure will be thrown out,” he says. “Waverly will dismiss the investigation, you know he will—”

“Of course I know,” she snaps. There’s another pause, and then, amazingly, she says, “better tell me your stupid plan now so we can make one that will actually work.”  
  


* * *

They don’t have a lot of time. Gaby tells him that there’s less than a month before the department has to submit their official recommendation on Illya’s tenure to the college committee, and then it’s out of their hands. Waverly has kept the investigation entirely internal somehow, but Napoleon knows that if Victoria’s allegations make it out of the department they’ll do irreparable damage regardless if they discredit her.

Napoleon spends all his free time combing through old emails between him and Victoria, gleaning clues and hints from them, while Gaby does her best to dig up rumors around the department. She looks young enough that she manages corner a group of current students at a local bar, pretending to be a student thinking of taking Victoria’s class but worried about her transcript. Unfortunately, all she gets is rumors, and one student who claims to have know someone who bought their grade. That person turns out to be a dead end, though, either unwilling to spill the dirt or not involved in the first place. It’s not enough.

Which is, in the end, how they end up planning something that seems more suited to a spy movie than real life. Napoleon is sitting in his office with the door closed, his phone resting in front of him on his desk with the speaker on, while Gaby is on the other end of the line, muttering to him through a single bluetooth earbud as she heads toward Victoria’s empty office. Victoria is in class for another hour, so there’s no reason that it won’t be easy for Gaby to slip in with the universal key she ‘borrowed’ from the department’s main office, but despite that Napoleon has never been so wound up in his life. With no visuals and nothing to do with his hands, he’s had to put away all his pens and anything else he might accidentally destroy with his nerves.

“I’m in,” Gaby says simply. Napoleon hears the door click closed behind her and the creak of the chair as she sits at the desk. “Laptop or desktop?”

“Laptop first,” he tells her. “Computer password should be D-I-A-D-E-M-A, all caps. She’s never changed it in her life.”

There’s a clack of computer keys, and Gaby gives grunt of approval. “Remind me of the student names we’re looking for?”  
  
Napoleon grabs his notebook, grateful for something to do, and rattles off the names of a few students they thought might have been involved. “Anything?” he asks immediately, unable to help himself.  
  
“I’m _looking_ ,” she hisses at him. “Cool your jets.”

“You know that’s basically impossible.”  
  
Gaby snorts out a laugh. “‘Basically impossible’ is a pretty good description of you.”

“Hey,” he says, feigning injury, “I’ll have you know I’m not basic in the slightest.”

That one nets him a groan, and he grins despite himself. There is a long, drawn out silence punctuated only by the sound of Gaby typing, during which Napoleon tries not to feel like he’s going to crawl out of his skin. This is their last hope, and if they can’t find proof here they’re unlikely to find it anywhere.

“Found something,” Gaby says eventually. “She was good about deleting emails, but there’s one where an older conversation is still quoted under later messages. She never comes out and says anything explicit, but there’s a number, looks like it could be a price.”

Napoleon feels a massive wave of relief and hope surge through him, even though it’s still probably not quite enough. It’s _something_. “Ok, that’s good, that’s promising,” he says hurriedly. “Can you look for that number again? What about accessing her banking records from there?”

“Gimme a sec, she has the computer set up to autofill passwords,” she says automatically. A few more excruciating minutes pass, and then Gaby lets out a low whistle. “Holy crap. I think I found them. Cash deposits, always the same amount, but there’s a few in here that look like wire transfers. I can use the dates, trace some more emails… I need to print all this shit out.”

“Be careful, someone else could go to the printer—”

“You think I don’t know that?” she snaps. “I’m careful.” He hears her take a deep breath and let it out as a long sigh. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think we actually did it, Solo. This could be enough.”

Napoleon lets out his own shaky breath. His hands are trembling with adrenaline, even though he’s sitting hundreds of miles away. “Thank you, Gaby. Really, I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you—”

“I didn’t do it for you,” she interrupts, but there’s no heat in her voice. “I did it for him.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “Me too.”

He hears Gaby close the door to Victoria’s office again and then the hum of a printer. “Got the files,” she mutters. “I’ll scan them and send you a copy, and we can figure out the best way to bring them to Wav—OH!”

“Hey Gaby,” a familiar voice says, just audible over the line. “What are you doing on this floor?”

“Illya!” Gaby says too sharply. Fear surges down Napoleon’s spine and into his limbs, and he has to remind himself to breathe. “I was, uh— Mike! He, uh, asked me to take a look at something for him.”

“Oh yeah? Anything interesting?”

“Ah, nahhhh,” she drawls, sounding distinctly uncomfortable. “He thought he had a few frags that might go together, but I don’t think they do.”

“Too bad,” Illya says. “Printer in the lab’s broken again, I see.”  
  
“What? Oh, yeah, it is.” Napoleon can hear the papers she’s just printed rustle in her hands. “I should go tell Ella so she can put a ticket in.”

“You know you still have one earbud in, right?”

“Do I?” Gaby asks.

Abruptly his phone erupts in noise as she apparently plucks the earbud out and jams it into her pocket. She didn’t hang up, but he also can’t hear anything more other than that they’re still talking. After a few more minutes he can’t make out anything at all, then the rustling returns and he assumes he’s back in Gaby’s ear.

“You probably shouldn’t go into espionage,” he says lightly. “You know, if you’re ever considering a career change.”  
  
“Very funny,” she hisses. “I’d like to see you do better. I can hear you fidgeting nervously over the phone.”  
  
“I’m not fidgeting,” he lies, dropping the pen he’d been uncapping and recapping.

Gaby lets out a distinctly weary sigh. “I still don’t understand why we can’t tell him.”

“It’s better if he’s not involved,” Napoleon explains for what feels like the tenth time. “It doesn’t look like he’s trying to get back at her if he knows nothing about it. Plausible deniability.”  
  
“But he’s my boss and my friend, so it _does_ look like I am,” she counters.

She makes a good point, and it’s an argument they’ve had before, but it’s not like they have a lot of options. “We won’t get caught,” he says eventually. “And if we do, I’ll take responsibility. I can claim I gathered the information a while ago, when I had access to her computer.” It’s almost true, anyway, which is the best kind of lie.

“Because looking like you’re out for revenge on your ex is great for your career,” Gaby says sarcastically. “If she found out, she could try to take you down with her.”

Napoleon sighs. She could, and she would. There is literally no way Victoria would go down without a fight, and if she found out it was Napoleon, who knows what she would do. “Look, it’s a risk I’m willing to take, ok?”

“Fine. I’m hanging up on you now. Look for my email later.”

“Will do,” he says before the line goes dead again.

* * *

A funny thing happens during the weeks they’re working together to take down Victoria, something that neither of them really expected when they embarked on this endeavor. They spend hours on the phone planning, exchange countless emails and texts. Naturally, not all of them are about The Plan. Bits and pieces of their lives creep in, until they get to the point where they’re calling each other with little updates that turn into long conversations about everything and nothing.

For two people who had hardly spoken in almost five years—excepting the time they spent together with Illya as a buffer during the last SCS meetings—it’s a bit of a shock to the system. Before they started all this, Gaby had made it clear that she had no intention of forgiving him any time soon, which was certainly her prerogative. To be fair, he’d never been that interested in forgiving _her_ until recently. But then the wounds that caused their rift begin to mend, and almost without realizing it, they start falling back into their old habits.

Without realizing it, they become friends again.

“We should talk about Illya,” she says one day, without fanfare, after he’s just told her his plan for delivering the documents to Waverly anonymously.

“Sure,” he answers without really thinking about it, “is there an update on the investigation?”

“Not about the investigation,” Gaby clarifies. It’s only then that he hears the careful tone to her voice, like she’s bringing up something delicate. “About you and him.”

“Oh,” he manages. A kind of creeping dread crawls into his limbs. This is definitely not a conversation he’s eager to have. Napoleon spends a lot of time trying _not_ to think about him, which is of course difficult given that he also spends a ridiculous amount of time working on a project to help him.

“Napoleon,” Gaby sighs. Its the first time she’s called him that since their falling out, and it makes something deep within him ache. “He deserves to know you still care about him.”

Napoleon opens his mouth and closes it again, swallowing hard. “I’ve tried, Gaby. I’ve apologized a hundred times in a hundred ways. I know it’s a surprise, but I can, actually, take a hint. He’s not interested in my friendship, and I’m ok with that.”

“Yeah, that’s not true,” she says, sounding disappointed in him. “You’re usually a better liar than that. I know you miss him.”  
  
“Of course I do,” he scoffs. “But that doesn’t mean anything.”  
  
“I think it does.”

Napoleon huffs in frustration and drops his face into one hand, muffling his voice slightly. “What do you want me to do, Gaby? Write him a letter? Leave him another voicemail he’ll delete without listening to? ‘Hi, yeah, I know you hate my guts but turns out I’m still hopelessly in love with you’? That’ll go over well, I’m sure.”

There’s a silence over the line, and it’s in that moment that Napoleon realizes what he’s just said. He’s never spoken the words out loud before, even if he’s known since, well, his visit to Chicago. The time that his traitorous lips almost said them, on that fateful night in New York, certainly doesn’t count. Panic sets in, and he opens his mouth to laugh it off, to deny it, to do _something_ , but nothing comes out.

“Oh, Napoleon,” Gaby says gently.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Of course you did,” she presses, but in that utterly compassionate way that’s so kind it’s almost painful. “You have to tell him.”

“I don’t,” he says stubbornly. “He doesn’t deserve to have to deal with that. And he won’t listen anyway, so what’s the point?”

“At least let me talk to him—”

“No,” he cuts her off. “Absolutely not. I told you before, I’m not doing this to try to win him back or some pathetic shit like that.”

“I _know_ that,” she almost groans, and he can tell she’s getting frustrated with him. “But you torturing yourself isn’t helping either of you.”

“Look, let’s just finish this, and then neither of you will have to deal with me again. That will be better for everyone.”

Gaby sighs at him. Ok, maybe he’s being melodramatic, so sue him. That doesn’t make him not _right_.

“That’s just not true, Napoleon,” she murmurs. He hears her take a deep breath, like she’s working up to say something significant. “Do you remember the last thing I said to you? Before?”  
  
It’s a pretty broad question, but no clarification is necessary; he knows exactly what she’s talking about. He also remembers it like it was yesterday. He doesn’t want to admit that he’s replayed the conversation in his head a thousand times. Even moreso in the last year, using it as a stark reminder of what he’d done and what he had been as he tried to be a better person, fool’s errand that it turned out to be.

“You told me that I’ve only ever cared about myself,” he says. His voice is flat and even; the words lost the ability to sting long ago. “You were right.”

Gaby sighs heavily. “No, I wasn’t. It’s never been true. Even when you were at your worst, it was never just for you, was it? You were doing it to please her. She wanted the dashing young hotshot on her arm to be the one everyone talked about, and she knew that a high-profile professional war would further that goal. Illya was just threatening enough to be a worthwhile adversary. All she had to do was stoke the flames.”  
  
“That’s not—” he starts, but his voice falters. After all the years he spent years making excuses for Victoria’s behavior, the impulse is still half ingrained in him even now.

“Did you forget I’ve had to work in the same department as her for the last five years?” Gaby asks, her tone heavy with sarcasm. “I know, Napoleon.”

Napoleon swallows hard and wonders if she can hear it over the line. “Why are you telling me this?”  
  
“Because,” she sighs again, the strain in her voice obvious, “because I feel responsible in some way? I don’t know. I should have seen it then, and every moment since. If I had, maybe we wouldn’t both have five years of regrets. But I guess it was easier to pretend that it was true. That you were nothing but a self-centered asshole.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like I gave you a lot of reason to think otherwise. You don’t owe me any apologies, Gaby.”

She huffs at him, and he can practically feel her rolling her eyes through the phone. “You’re getting them anyway, idiot. I’m _telling_ you this because I can see you trying to hide behind what I said all those years ago. Convincing yourself that you don’t deserve happiness now. I said that because I knew it would hurt you, not so you could use it as some kind of shield for the next five years. Not so you could use it now to justify walking away because you’re scared of being happy.”

“I’m not _scared_ ,” Napoleon protests weakly, because really he’s _terrified_.

“Then _tell him how you feel_ ,” she snaps at him, the words hissing through her clenched teeth.

“I can’t—” he starts, but he knows he won’t win the argument. In any case, right now doesn’t have the words for what he can or can’t do. His emotions are raw, pulled far too close to the surface in that way that few people could do to him. “Please,” he whispers. “I won’t walk away, but please, leave it. For my sake, for Illya’s sake. It’s better if he doesn’t know, believe me.”

“I _don’t_ believe you,” she shoots back, “but I’ll leave it, if that’s what you want. _For now_. I reserve the right to bring it up again in the future.”

“Of course you do,” he sighs, but despite everything he’s unable to stop a smile from fighting its way onto his lips. He’s not sure how he managed to get this back, and by now he knows better than to argue with her about whether or not he deserves it. He doesn’t, but he’ll take it anyway like the selfish bastard she claims he isn’t.

“Not like I can stop you,” he points out. “Never could.”

“Damn straight,” she replies, sounding unmistakably smug.

* * *

“It worked,” Gaby says excitedly as soon as he picks up the phone. “Napoleon, it _worked_. Waverly took the documents to the upper administration. She’s being forced to resign, and they’re throwing out her allegations against Illya.”

“That’s wonderful news,” he replies with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. Really, it is. It’s nice to know _something_ he poured a ton of time into has paid off. It’s just… exceedingly difficult to be excited about anything, this week of all weeks.

Gaby, of course, can tell. “What’s wrong? This is everything we’ve been working for.”

“I know, and it’s perfect,” Napoleon tries again. “Couldn’t be happier.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s the least convincing lie you’ve ever told,” she scoffs at him. “You sound like someone died.”

He was going to tell her sooner or later, he was. But honestly he’s still coming to terms with it himself, and right now, when they should be celebrating triumphantly, is the worst possible moment to say anything. Not like he has a lot of choice, though. There’s no way she’ll let it go.

“I didn’t get the grant,” he says, keeping his voice as flat as possible.

“No no no no,” Gaby replies immediately, like she’s going to try to convince him otherwise. “There’s got to be a mistake. How could they—? They can’t just—!”

Napoleon sighs. “They can and did. Reviewers liked it, but it was ranked just outside the funding cutoff. Not like that makes it any easier to take.”

“Does Sanders know?” she asks. He can hear what she’s trying to ask but can’t bring herself to. _What about your tenure package?_

“He does. The department is not inclined to give me another chance,” he says hollowly. “I’ll be on the job market again next year.”

It still doesn't quite feel real. That all the work he’s put in over the past five years—all the sleepless nights and too-long days, all the stress and heartache, all the highs and lows—it all means next to nothing, in the end. Instead he has to press reset, go back to the start and try it all over again, hoping that the outcome isn’t inevitable. And that’s _if_ he can even manage to get another job; the market sucks, as usual, and there are plenty of young, exciting, fresh faces out there.

“I’m so sorry, Napoleon,” she murmurs.

It’s this show of compassion that cuts to the quick. He hasn’t told many people, because he knows what he’ll get. He doesn’t want to see the pity mixed with relief on their faces. _Poor bastard_ , they’ll all think, _thank god it’s not me_. They’ll feel bad for him, but they won’t care. Not really. Not like he can hear in Gaby’s voice. He feels the sting of tears in his eyes and squeezes them shut. God dammit, he’s got class in fifteen minutes.

“…you’ll find someplace better,” Gaby is saying. Apparently she’d started rambling while he was wallowing in his misery. “That department is a mess, you don’t want to stay there anyway. Anywhere would be lucky to have you, seriously. You’ll be at the top of everyone’s shortlists.”

“I’m not sure that’s true, but I appreciate the thought,” he replies, smiling sadly at her insistence. If someone had told him two years ago that this would be happening, he would have laughed in their face. “Buy Illya a celebratory drink for me tonight, ok? Just… don’t tell him who it’s from.”  
  
“Napoleon—”

“I’ve got class,” he says. “I’ll talk to you later, ok?”  
  
“Promise me you’ll be ok?” she asks, obvious concern in her voice.

“I’ll be ok, I promise.”

Maybe he shouldn’t make promises he’s not sure he can keep, he thinks bleakly as he gathers his materials for class. There’s not many ways someone can be _ok_ after failing to get tenure. She is right about the department; he won’t be upset to leave Sanders and the rest behind, but it’s impossible not to feel like he’s wasted the last five years of his life in service to an institution that will shortly be unceremoniously showing him the door.

Maybe, if he’s lucky, a good position will open up this fall. Somewhere he can thrive and grow. Somewhere he has a chance to actually be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so mean to poor Napoleon! 😭 But of course, Gaby is right, he doesn't belong it that department.
> 
> I have to give a sincere shoutout to everyone coming along on this ride with me and commenting on each chapter. I love love hearing what you think as things unfold! ❤️


	7. SCS Conference, Boston, January

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another year, another conference; or, Illya can no longer avoid the problems he's made for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now it's Illya's turn for a bit of self-reflection and angsting. I love all of the latin quotes that I found for the chapters but I feel like this one really encapsulates Illya's reaction to the situation perfectly.

_Amans iratus multa mentitur._  
(An angry lover tells himself many lies)  
—Publilius Syrus

He looks good. Illya doesn’t really know what he was expecting; it’s been more than half a year since the fateful tenure decision that he’d heard about thirdhand, and even longer since their falling out. What’s more, he’s here interviewing for jobs, so it’s in his best interest to look good.

It’s also not totally real. There’s a tightness in his face that’s unmistakable if you know how to look for it, an emptiness behind his eyes and a strain in his smile, and at this point Illya knows. He wishes he didn’t. No, that’s not quite right. He wishes he didn’t know that part of the reason Napoleon is not ok is because of him. He’s not conceited to think that it's all about him, but from the looks he catches when Napoleon thinks he’s not watching, it’s not insignificant.

At the moment Napoleon is chatting with someone from Stanford that Illya doesn’t really know. They have a position open there, and no doubt Napoleon has applied for it. The thought of Napoleon moving all the way to California makes Illya feel vaguely ill in a way he’d rather not contemplate too hard. In any case, he—certainly, of all people—has no right to have feelings about where Napoleon does or does not move.

Illya has been watching this conversation out of the corner of his eye for the last ten minutes as he pretends to read something on his phone. He’s not close enough to hear what they’re saying, but he’s close enough to hear Napoleon’s laugh. The fake one, the one Illya used to despise. He still doesn’t like it, but now it’s for an entirely different reason.

“You’re really bad at that, you know?” Gaby says as she plops down in the chair opposite him, swinging her legs over the arm rest. He gives her a look of confusion, so she elaborates. “Pretending like you’re not watching him.”

“I’m not,” Illya lies, glaring at her before looking down at his phone again.

“No one could spend that long looking at their phone without scrolling,” she accuses pointedly. “You’re lucky he’s too busy trying to charm the pants off that guy to notice.”

Illya winces involuntarily at her turn of phrase, and she gives him a pitying look. He never told her what happened in New York other than that he’d found out that Napoleon had played some role in the mess caused by Victoria. He’d even been vague about that; even at his angriest, he had no desire unleash Gaby’s wrath. She’d put enough together, anyway, to be worried about him for reasons other than the allegations, although she never pushed. Most of the time he couldn’t figure out if it was comforting or disconcerting that she seemed to know so much.

Right now she’s staring at Napoleon a bit more openly than Illya would really like, an expression on her face that he can’t quite read. “You are going to talk to him, yes?” she asks.

“Of course,” he mutters, still staring at his phone. He scrolls down the page a bit for good measure. “Not now,” he adds in case she’s getting ideas. “He’s busy.”

Gaby snorts a laugh at that and swings her legs back down just as the guy from Stanford departs from his conversation with Napoleon. “Not so busy anymore,” she taunts, but Illya doesn’t take the bait. The very last place he’s going to have this conversation is in the middle of the conference hotel lobby.

For a moment he thinks she’s gone rogue because when she walks off, she heads directly toward Napoleon. Suddenly worried that he might not have much time before certain disaster, Illya gives up the pretense of his phone and watches openly as she approaches him. He can’t see her face but he can see Napoleon’s, can see him smile for a moment before his gaze flicks up to where Illya sits and then rapidly away again. Gaby apparently says something to him, and Napoleon looks exasperated, but in an oddly fond way.

(At some point, while he was completely overwhelmed during spring quarter, her attitude toward Napoleon had unmistakably shifted. Illya still doesn’t really understand what had happened to cause it. She’d gone from fully enabling the way he was shutting out Napoleon to actually suggesting that he make contact. Of course, she refused to say what had changed her mind on this matter, so Illya was left wondering.)

From across the lobby, Gaby looks over and gives Illya a meaningful, shrewd look before she walks away from Napoleon. Whatever she says as they part causes Napoleon to glance up at him again, and Illya hurriedly buries his nose in his phone. The idea that they are talking about him is more than a little uncomfortable. Maybe he _should_ just go over there, perhaps ask Napoleon to take a walk with him away from the conference. Gaby would say that putting it off is not doing either of them any good, and she’s undoubtedly right, but by the time he looks back up, Napoleon has disappeared.

The thing is, Illya knows that saying he handled the whole situation poorly would be putting it mildly. He’d let his fury carry him through his lecture and the weeks that followed, because as long as he was angry he could ignore the pain. He could ignore all of the messages that Napoleon had left and tell himself it was better that way.

(Illya had allowed himself to read exactly one of Napoleon’s many emails and messages: the very first, a long-winded apology that he must have sent from the train to the city. Illya didn’t get it until he checked his email while sitting at the gate, waiting for his flight back to Chicago. It is perhaps not that unusual for even grown men to be brought nearly to tears in Laguardia airport, though until that point Illya could not have counted himself among them.

After that, he guarded his anger carefully, so as not to let such things slip through its defenses again.)

He told himself he needed space, he told himself he needed time, he told himself that what he’d done was a reasonable act of self-preservation, even when, deep down, he knew it wasn’t. Not really. Not after Victoria had been forced to resign, and all the obstacles he’d so successfully used as a distraction were removed from his path. Not after the anger that he’d used as armor for so long seemed to disintegrate in the face of the reality of the situation, and all he was left with was regret.

He’d fucked up, big time. Napoleon’s messages had trailed away to nothing, which wasn’t surprising, but the silence that formed in their absence seemed impenetrable. Illya knew, rationally, that he should just reach out, that he would need to be the one to do so, but since when does your rational mind make decisions of the heart?

The closest he came was when he found out—by overhearing his grad students’ chatter, of all things—that Napoleon hadn’t gotten the grant. But by then he’d quite thoroughly convinced himself that he was the very last person that Napoleon would want to hear from. So he put it off, because he’s always been a champion at avoiding his problems.

Several times it seemed like Gaby was going to say something, but he’d strictly forbidden discussion of his and Napoleon’s relationship, and she honored that. It didn’t matter that through it all, his feelings for Napoleon had stubbornly refused to fade, no matter how much he willed them to. After the way Illya had treated him, he had little hope that Napoleon would ever forgive him.

When the time for his summer field season came, it had almost been a relief. At the beginning all of the planning and prep was useful for taking his mind off things, but there’s really not much like working an excavation to give you endless time to think. Normally it’s a boon—he’s dreamed up countless projects and figured out new ways of looking at the material—but this year one thing had monopolized his thoughts. He’d composed hundreds of emails in his head, ranging from elaborate apologies to field updates that pretended nothing had changed between them. In the end, he couldn’t convince himself to actually write any of them.

The fall quarter started, the seasons changed, and every week he hadn’t called became another reason he couldn’t. These past months—post tenure, secure in his position and his place in the field—should have been some of the best of his life, but he still hasn’t been able to shake a lingering emptiness, like something is missing. He can’t pretend not to know what’s behind that feeling.

“See any good talks this morning?”

Illya tries not to start in surprise at the question, too wrapped up in his own brooding to notice his colleague’s approach. Klein leans casually on the chair Gaby had vacated, shooting Illya an inquisitive look as he flips through the book of conference abstracts.

Illya shrugs. “A few.” Hopefully Klein won’t be particularly interested in pursuing this topic of conversation, though, because while Illya had been sitting in one of the session rooms all morning, he’d hardly managed to pay attention to any of the talks. “You?”

“Yeah. Had a list to get to, a bunch of our job candidates,” Klein laughs. “You’re lucky you got a reprieve on this one, doing conference interviews is exhausting.”

“I think it’s worse for the candidates,” Illya replies, amused, and it gets a nod and a chuckle out of Klein. “You have the interviews tomorrow, right?”

“A whole battery of them. It’s gonna be a long day.” Klein sighs, flipping his book closed again. “Seriously, how did you manage to get out of this? Promise Waverly your firstborn? I think we have a record number of applicants this year.”

“Ah,” Illya says noncommittally, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly as he stares off across the lobby. “He just said he wanted me on the Core committee.”  
  
It’s a complete and utter lie, but Klein seems to accept it. He nods, screwing up his mouth thoughtfully. “Yeah, that one can be a pain in the ass sometimes. Still, you lucked out.”

“Yeah,” Illya agrees. “I guess so.”

Luck had nothing to do with it.

There’s no way he can tell Klein how or why he got out of serving on the search committee for Victoria’s replacement. He’d been assigned to it originally, of course; it had made perfect sense up until the point he’d sat down with the stack of applications for the position and seen Napoleon’s staring back at him. To his credit, when Illya told the department chair he didn’t think he should be part of the search, Waverly hadn’t asked why. Illya had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew anyway.

All Illya knows is that he can’t imagine having to sit down in a conference hotel room with three other members of his department and ask Napoleon why he thinks he’s a good fit for the University of Chicago. Illya had tried not to read too much into the fact that Napoleon had applied; it was a good position, more or less equivalent to the one Napoleon was leaving, and he’d be stupid not to apply. Academic jobs were scarce enough as it is. Surely, at this point, Napoleon was applying in spite of Illya’s presence there rather than because of it.

“Did you get a chance to look at any of the applications before you left?” Klein asks, as if reading Illya’s thoughts. “I have to say, Solo’s is damned impressive. I can’t believe he didn’t get tenure at Yale.”

“I didn’t,” Illya answers, and this time it’s only half a lie. He’d flipped through some of them, but he hadn’t been able to read a word of Napoleon’s. Somehow it had seemed to intimate and too formal all at once. “But I don’t think anyone has ever accused Sanders of being reasonable.”

“True enough,” Klein agrees. He checks his watch and pushes back from the chair. “Oh, I better get to another session. I’m sure I’ll see you at Solo’s talk later?”

“Yeah, of course,” Illya replies, but Klein is already running off across the hotel.

Left alone with his thoughts, Illya finds himself dwelling once again on the question of Napoleon’s application. Despite everything, he can’t quite quash the tendril of hope that has wrapped itself around his heart and squeezed. What if there’s more behind it than the fact that he needs a job? What if it’s not too late for them? He can’t seem to convince himself that it could be true, though.

He can practically hear Gaby’s voice in his head. _You could just_ ask _him, you know._ He will. The next time he finds Napoleon alone, they’ll talk.

Just then, he sees the object of his contemplation go hurrying across the hotel lobby, laptop in hand, looking slightly harried.

Maybe not the _next_ time, then. Maybe tomorrow.

* * *

The afternoon sessions are over, and Illya finds himself at loose ends. He has no meetings scheduled and he gave his own talk that morning, so he doesn’t even have the excuse of locking himself in his room to make last minute tweaks to things that don’t need tweaking. Gaby disappeared at some point, like she often does when she tires of talks, and when he doesn’t find her in the halls or at the bar he assumes she’s back in her room. With nothing else to do, he wanders up to her floor and down the hall, thinking idly about some of the talks he’d just heard.

As he approaches her room the unmistakable sound of voices filter out through the door, which has been left cracked open by the deployed deadbolt. That in and of itself is unusual; Gaby doesn’t typically use her room for private meetings, and she’d be more likely to be chatting with a friend over drinks at the hotel bar. He stops outside for a moment, trying to decide if he should knock or just leave and come back later, when he recognizes the other voice with a start. _Leave now_ would be the obvious, appropriate choice, and he tells himself he should turn around, but his feet seem to be utterly frozen in place.

“This is stupid,” Gaby is saying. “I understand not telling him before, but now there’s no good reason. He should know.”

“Now is the _exact_ time that no one else should know,” Napoleon snaps. “You think it’s going to help my application if people find out that you and I are the ones who took down Victoria?”

If Illya had been surprised to find Napoleon in Gaby’s room, it was nothing compared to this. He’d been—he assumed purposefully—kept in the dark about the details Victoria’s disgrace, including how the information had come to light. He’d figured that it was a student whistleblower, like so many of these things are, but now he realizes that doesn’t really make sense. Students write exposés for the student newspaper, they don’t deliver secret documents to department chairs. By keeping Victoria’s fall from the public eye, they also prevented her allegations about Illya from getting out. The people that took her down knew Victoria, they knew how university bureaucracy works, and they knew the status of his own investigation in the department.

It seems almost obvious now. That doesn’t keep it from being a shock.

“You don’t trust him to keep it a secret?” Gaby is arguing.  
  
“Of course I trust him,” he hears Napoleon sigh. “But the fewer people who know the better. I think Waverly suspects me already.”

“So you’ll tell him after you get the job, right?” Gaby presses.  
  
Napoleon huffs out an unmistakably bitter laugh. “Getting a little ahead of yourself, aren’t you? I’m not even on the shortlist yet.”

“Whatever, you’ll get it,” she says dismissively. “If I have to storm Waverly’s office—”

“Gaby—”

“—or dig up dirt on all the other candidates—”

“ _Gaby_ —” Napoleon growls in clear exasperation.

“Doesn’t matter. You’ll tell him eventually? About _everything_?” She puts a lot of weight into the last word, and Illya realizes they’re not just talking about Victoria anymore.

“Really, I just don’t think it's a good idea,” Napoleon says miserably. “He’s moved on.”  
  
“He hasn’t,” Gaby counters. “I spent all summer trapped in a pit with him, I can promise you he hasn’t.”

Illya can’t quite hold back a flinch at that. He’d really thought he’d been better at concealing just how much time he’d spent dwelling on Napoleon last summer, but he should have known Gaby would see through him. It wasn’t like they had talked about him, or about what had happened, but it seems that Gaby may have known more than he thought from a very unexpected source. She’s not _wrong_ ; he just never really expected to hear it put so plainly.

“You can’t tell me that, Gaby,” Napoleon groans. “It would probably be better if he did.”

“You don’t believe that,” she huffs at him. “Why’d you even apply if you’re so certain it won’t work out between the two of you?”

Napoleon doesn’t reply immediately. This has gone far past the point where Illya should have left, but Gaby’s question has haunted him ever since he found out Napoleon had applied. He’s asked himself why a thousand times and is always ashamed at what he desperately hopes the answer is. As in so many things, he seems to be destined not to get a straight answer.

“Don’t ask me that,” Napoleon says eventually, so quietly Illya almost can’t hear it. “Please. I can’t— I just can’t answer that question right now.”

There’s another long pause, and then Gaby’s reply comes out muffled. “Ok. Ok. But if you get this job, you’re going to have to talk to him about it. I won’t let you stay this much of a mess forever.”

Napoleon makes a choked sound that seems to be half a sigh and half a laugh. “Fine. But I’m not making any promises about _not_ being a mess if that happens. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a terrifying interview to get to and I have to go change my suit because _someone_ has made this one a rumpled mess.”

“Whatever. You needed a hug and you know it.”

“I did,” Napoleon confirms, his voice sincere. “Thank you, Gaby.”

The knowledge that Napoleon will imminently be coming through the door Illya is currently standing in front of finally unfreezes him, and he takes off back toward the elevators, his mind still reeling with everything he just heard. His own room is a few floors up, and he thinks maybe he can retreat there for a while and try to make sense of what he’s just heard, but god damn, these elevators are being _so_ slow. The stairs are right around the corner, and in his haste to get to them he practically launches himself out of the elevator bay and straight into Napoleon.

The collision is hard enough to make them both stumble backwards, and Napoleon drops the leather folder he’s carrying, sending papers cascading around the hall. Illya crouches down at once to gather them, in no small part to try to conceal his complete lack of surprise at this encounter.

“Oh!” Napoleon says with a start when he sees who’s currently kneeling at his feet. “Peril! Ah, sorry about that, didn’t see you coming…”  
  
“My fault, Cowboy,” Illya mutters. He stuffs the papers—interview documents, all of them—carefully back into the folder and then he has no choice but to stand and face the man he’s been avoiding.

His first thought is that Napoleon’s suit doesn’t really look that rumpled, and he doesn’t think he needs to change. That’s not something he can actually comment on, though, because he shouldn’t know that Gaby just gave him one of her trademark bear hugs that really do chase your worries away like nothing else. Napoleon is staring at him, his mouth still hanging open like he’s about to say something but has just utterly forgotten what that was, so Illya just decides to hand over the folder and end the awkward standoff as best he can.

“Your folder,” he says, pushing it into Napoleon’s hands. _Say something else_ , his mind oh-so-helpfully suggests, and he blurts the next thing that comes to his lips. “You, uh, look good.”

_Not that_ , he groans internally, but it’s too late.

A faint flush blooms on Napoleon’s cheeks and he drops his gaze, clearing his throat. “Ah, well, thank you. You— you too,” he mumbles, shuffling the folder from hand to hand. “Gaby is in her room, if that’s where you’re headed.”

“Right, thanks,” Illya manages. It’s an obvious assumption to make, but it means that now he can’t very well disappear into the stairwell. He moves to step around Napoleon and head down the hall toward Gaby’s room but pauses again, turning half back. “Good luck. With your interview, I mean.”

“Thanks,” he hears Napoleon reply somewhat distantly, as if he hasn’t fully processed the interaction, but Illya is already walking away.

Napoleon’s gaze feels like it’s burning into his back, and Illya fights the urge to turn around. Whatever conversation they need to have, now is certainly not the time. Without really thinking he pulls open Gaby’s door and flips the lock back in, collapsing onto it as it closes behind him. Suddenly his knees don’t seem so stable anymore, and he slides down to sit on the ground, closing his eyes and letting his head thunk back against the door. A few seconds later, he hears a spring squeak in Gaby’s bed and the sound of her soft footsteps on the carpet as she approaches.

“You are so dramatic sometimes,” she says dryly. “I take it you ran into Napoleon on your way here?”

Illya nods, not quite trusting himself to speak just yet.

“Did you actually say anything, or did you just stare at each other dumbly like you have all meeting?”

He sighs heavily. “Gaby, please.”  
  
“Please what? Stop telling the truth?” she challenges. “I don’t think that’s what you really want, is it?”

“I heard you talking,” he admits, squeezing his eyes more tightly shut as he does. He can still tell she’s taken aback by this information.

“What?”

“I was coming to find you,” he explains, “and I heard you guys talking. I know I shouldn’t have listened, but I just kinda… froze.” He cracks an eye open to look at her and finds her staring incredulously. “I heard everything.”

To his surprise, she just laughs. “Well, I guess that simplifies some things. C’mon, get off the ground.”

Gaby closes the remaining gap between them and stands over him, holding out her hand to help him up. Never mind that he’d pull her clean over if he actually put his weight on it; it’s the gesture that counts, anyway. Illya struggles to his feet and stumbles after her as she leads him across the room and sits him down in a chair, perching herself on the bed opposite him.

“So,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him. “Now you know about Victoria.”

He gives a small nod, although of course he doesn’t know the specifics. He knows the important part, that it was Napoleon and Gaby. “I get why you didn’t tell me, but I really wish you had after it was over.”

“Yeah, well it wasn’t my decision.” She rolls her eyes and lets a small sigh escape her, and he gets the sense that she and Napoleon have fought about that point a lot. “He didn’t want you to know at all. Ever. Said he didn’t want you to think he was doing it to try to get something from you. But _I_ think you deserve to know what he did for you.”

“What you both did.”

Gaby waves off his gratitude. “It was his idea. He just needed someone on the ground.”

“Still,” he insists, leaning forward in the chair, “thank you.”

“You know I’d do anything for you, you big lug,” she huffs affectionately before affixing him with a pointed stare. “And so would he.”

Illya nods and sighs heavily, letting his head droop between his shoulders. “What do I do?” he asks quietly.

“I’d suggest dragging him into some out of the way corner and kissing him silly—”

“ _Gaby_ ,” he groans, feeling his face flush hotly.

“—but I understand you might prefer a more measured approach,” she finishes dryly. “Tell him how you _feel_ , dummy.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple.” He wants it to be, oh god does he want it to be, but it feels like there’s a rift between them that can’t be that easily bridged.

Gaby apparently disagrees. “Look, you both made mistakes. You both have regrets. So just, I don’t know, call it even and leave it in the past. What matters is that you both still care about each other. He’s got his interview now, but you should take him out after for drinks. Or, better yet, bring drinks to his room.”

“You’re incorrigible,” he can’t help laugh.

“I’m serious!” she shoots back, putting on her best offended face. “You want to talk someplace private? There you go. Room 1218. He should be done in an hour. You’re welcome.”

Illya stares at her for a moment but she does, in fact, appear to be dead serious. And maybe she’s right. They could go for a walk somewhere, outside the conference hotel and away from prying eyes, but Napoleon is likely to be fairly exhausted after the stress of his interview. Which is perhaps a reason to put this off entirely, but that just seems impossible now, knowing what he knows. Well, he has an hour to decide.

In the mean time, he still hasn’t quite gotten over the fact that Napoleon and Gaby had been working with each other. What’s more, they were still talking. Gaby had given him a _hug_.

“You’re friends again,” he says, more of a statement than a question.

Gaby shrugs, trying to look nonchalant and not quite succeeding. “Turns out if you spend enough time with someone plotting an evil bitch’s downfall, you start to remember what you liked about them in the first place.”

“I’m glad,” he tells her. “I’m glad he had someone.” Illya doesn't say it should have been him; he doesn’t say that, after everything they’d been through the previous year, he should have been there, no matter what. Gaby hears it anyway.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” she says gently. “What’s done is done, remember? You can be there for him now. He needs you.”

It’s that, more than anything, that seals his decision for him. Interviewing for jobs is harrowing under the best of circumstances, and Napoleon is pretty far from those. No matter what has happened between them, he needs support, and Illya can offer that even if Napoleon doesn’t want anything else from him.

Gaby’s smiling at him as he stands, and he can’t help but shake his head at her. “Thank you again.”

“Oh please,” she grins, “I’m just doing this so I don’t have to watch the both of you mope around anymore. Seriously, how did I get myself into this position?”

“Just lucky, I guess. Can I have a hug? I heard you were giving them out.”

“Only to deserving parties,” she retorts, but she wraps her arms around his waist and squeezes him anyway. “Now go get your boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit about the way academic job interviews work, because most people probably don't have any clue: they generally have two parts: a short initial interview, which can be done via phone, or in some fields like Classics, they're done at the major conferences for the field. The search committee (made up of various faculty from the hiring department) will go to the conference and schedule short interviews that usually take place in some hotel room or conference room. After that, they make a shortlist of maybe 3–5 candidates. Those candidates are invited to come to campus for a 2-day job interview (yes, it's fucking exhausting) that is made up of a shit-ton of meetings, several meals, and at least one seminar. I would bet most of you can guess where this is going in the story but for right now Napoleon is just at the conference interview stage. Oh and in academia you apply to jobs all over the place; most academics don't actually get to really choose where they want to live, outside a general region, and sometimes not even then.
> 
> ANYWAY! Sorry not sorry for cliffhanger. Originally this chapter and the next were going to be all one chapter but things got... long. So unfortunately you're gonna have to wait a little longer. BUT it is going to be SO worth it, let me tell you.


	8. Room 1218, Boston Marriott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our boys finally get their shit together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this chapter takes place entirely within Napoleon's hotel room. You're welcome.

_Amor animi arbitrio sumitur, non ponitur._  
(We choose to love, but we can not choose to stop loving)  
—Publilius Syrus

He stands outside of Napoleon’s hotel room for a good five minutes before he actually works up the nerve to knock. There are soft sounds from within, a radio or tv turned on, so he must be in there. Illya has spent the last hour working out what to say and how to say it, but it all seems to flee from him now. The bottle of Scotch he picked up at the corner liquor store feels heavy in his hands, and he’s long past second-guessing himself—on to fifth- or sixth-guessing, at least. Finally he convinces himself to do something before he falls any further into this hole of self-doubt and can’t climb out again. Raising his hand, he raps a couple of times and holds his breath.

A few moments pass before the tv or radio gets turned off and Napoleon pulls the door open. He’s still wearing his waistcoat but his shirt is untucked underneath it and his hair is decidedly ruffled, like he’s run his hands through it one too many times. The expression on his face says he’s completely shocked to find Illya on the other side of the door, and Illya seventh-guesses himself.

“Peace offering?” he says before he can back out, holding up the bottle of Scotch. He’d spent far too long agonizing over the selection; it couldn't be too expensive, or too cheap, and really he knows next to nothing about the liquor, unlike Napoleon. He just hopes that he made a decent choice.

Napoleon’s eyebrows shoot up when he sees it, which Illya chooses to take as a good sign. “Wow, nice bottle, Peril. I, uh…” he trails off and glances back into the room uncertainly.

“We could go somewhere else, if you want,” Illya offers quickly. He should have asked first, he thinks, rather than just showing up at his door like an idiot. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, come in,” Napoleon interrupts, stepping aside to allow Illya to enter. “Sorry for the mess, I wasn’t really expecting anyone.”

The room isn’t really _that_ messy, but Illya supposes it is by Napoleon’s standards, what little he knows of them. His suit jacket lies discarded on the bed next to the folder, and the contents of a briefcase are fairly exploded over the table with an open laptop tucked into their midst. The rejected, rumpled suit from earlier hangs on the bathroom door, and Illya briefly wonders if he’s really going to have it re-pressed before he wears it again. Probably, even though the wrinkles are hardly noticeable to his eye.

“Thought you could probably use a drink after your interview,” Illya says. His voice sounds remarkably calm, and far more steady than he feels at the moment. “It went well?”  
  
“I hope so,” Napoleon answers, grabbing two tumblers from the desk. Illya hands him the bottle and he regards the label appreciatively for a moment before pulling out the cap and sloshing the liquor into the glasses. “I have to admit, I thought you’d be on the search committee.”

“I was, originally,” Illya admits as Napoleon hands him a tumbler. “I asked Waverly to let me leave it.”

Napoleon’s eyes snap to Illya’s face, an unmistakable look of worry in his eyes. “Does he know why?”

Illya knows that Napoleon has more reason to be worried about the perception of their feud than people thinking they might be _involved_ ; no department would hire someone that they thought would bring discordance and enmity with them. But any sense of something besides a strictly professional relationship has the potential to influence a committee’s decision, even if they couldn’t legally or ethically consider it.

“No,” he says, regardless of what’s behind it. Then he pauses and gives a minuscule shrug before sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Probably yes. But the committee, no. He gave them some excuse about workload. Put me on a different committee.”

It’s hard to read Napoleon’s reaction to this; he nods, staring somewhat blankly off across the room from where he stands leaning against the table. Illya supposes he must be trying to process it all, or maybe just trying to figure out what to talk about now that they’re alone together for the first time in almost a year. The irony of this strained silence, after months where they seemed to never run out of things to say to each other, is not lost on him. But there are such massive things hanging between them now—Illya’s tenure and Napoleon’s lack thereof chief among them, to say nothing of what happened in the park—that the idea of recapturing that seems almost impossible.

It’s a stupid excuse. Why did he come here, if not to try? In the end, there’s only one thing he can think of to breach the wall he’d built between them through his months of non-communication.

“I’m sorry, Napoleon,” Illya murmurs quietly.

Somehow it still rings loudly in the silence of the room, and it takes Napoleon a second to react. Illya has to admit, he wasn’t expecting confusion. Napoleon looks at him, head tipped, brow furrowed, lips pressed into a frown, like he doesn't understand.

“What for?”

A bitter laugh escapes Illya’s lips before he can stop it. “Everything,” he answers. “For blaming you when it wasn’t really your fault. For shutting you out. For not—” his voice catches in his throat, and he has to take another swallow of liquor to unstick it, “for not being there for you when I should have been.”

He’d been staring at a spot a ways in front of him on the ugly hotel carpet as he said this, unable to watch Napoleon’s reaction. Unable to look for the forgiveness he desperately hopes for but doesn’t think he deserves. And now, as Napoleon doesn’t answer, he finds himself clinging more fiercely to the urge to fix this by whatever means necessary.

“I know you have no reason to forgive me,” Illya continues, still staring at the carpet. “I’m not going to insult you by trying to make excuses, because it’s like you said, in the park. There’s no excuse for hurting someone you care about like that. Because I do care about you, Cowboy. I never stopped. Your friendship— it means a lot to me. I hope we could— I hope we could be friends again.”

“Friends,” Napoleon echoes hollowly, and that finally draws Illya’s gaze up to him.

 _Friends_ was all Illya had allowed himself to hope for. Regardless of what he had heard standing outside Gaby’s door, he couldn’t quite believe that Napoleon could feel something more for him after all this time. And anyway, hadn’t it been Napoleon who had said it would be better if he moved on? Illya had staunchly refused to let himself get carried away, refused to let his stupid heart muck everything up a second time.

Now, all of that carefully built self control takes its leave in the face of the fleeting thing he sees in Napoleon’s eyes before he can try to cover it up. He doesn’t quite succeed. There is unmistakable hurt lurking just under the surface, like the concept of friendship itself is painful to him, and Illya cannot let himself be the cause of that pain _again_. He’s on his feet and crossing the space between them before he realizes he’s started moving.

“Cowboy, I—”

“Is that what you really want?” Napoleon interrupts, his voice strained despite his best efforts.

The question freezes Illya in place less than a stride away. He’s not even sure what he was going to _do_ , but now he looks searchingly into Napoleon’s blue eyes, praying he’s not misreading what he sees in them.

“No,” he whispers.

Napoleon takes a small step forward, bringing their faces within inches of each other, and raises one hand to softly cup Illya’s jaw. His thumb leaves fire in its wake as it ghosts across Illya’s cheek, scraping against the stubble there and moving inexorably toward the corner of his mouth.

Breathing has, as near as Illya can tell, become an optional thing in this moment. His heart beats an erratic rhythm against his ribcage that he’s certain Napoleon must be able to hear it in the aching quiet of the room. It’s the only part of him that seems to be able to move right now, because even though what Napoleon wants is obvious, he’s still paralyzed by the terror of making the wrong move.

Which is, itself, probably the wrong move. Illya inhales sharply as Napoleon’s hand starts sliding away, sure the moment has passed and he’s missed his chance, but it never leaves his skin. Napoleon’s fingers push into his hair and curl around the back of his neck, lingering for just a moment before he pulls Illya’s mouth down onto his.

It’s as if a surge of electricity jolts through his body, reanimating him from his previously frozen state. He grips Napoleon’s hips and drags the other man's body firmly against his own, relishing the feeling when the few sparks from the previous points of contact between them become an inferno of heat and desire as Napoleon presses forward, his other hand gripping tightly around Illya’s upper arm.

The kiss is nothing like the one they shared in the park; hunger and raw need have taken over now, and it becomes a battle of lips and tongues and teeth. If Illya can take comfort in something it’s the fact that Napoleon seems as desperate as he feels, like the volatile cocktail of lust and longing has finally been allowed to erupt from whatever pressurized vessel it’s been bottled up in for the last year. Illya feels it bubbling up in his chest, pressing against his ribs and making his lungs burn.

Or maybe that’s just the fact that he hasn’t been able to take a breath in what feels like several minutes. He pulls back, gasping for air, but Napoleon doesn’t miss a beat, shifting his attentions to his chin, his jaw, his ear, his neck. There’s a sense of urgency to Napoleon’s kisses, like he can’t quite believe this is actually happening and is trying to take in as much as he can while he has the chance.

The thought makes something ache inside him, makes him want to grab Napoleon’s head and force him to slow down, to show him with every kiss that this is real and he’s not going anywhere. Illya’s body, however, seems to have other opinions about the pace of their current activities. Next time, he thinks distantly, like a gasp of air before he goes underwater again. Next time, they’ll go slow.

Napoleon’s teeth scrape against the column of his throat, drawing a low moan from deep within him and causing the tense coil of desire somewhere deep in his gut to wind even tighter. Really, it would be embarrassing how quickly his body is responding to Napoleon’s ministrations if he weren’t so out of his mind with bliss that embarrassment is hardly an option. He lets one of his hands slide around to grip Napoleon’s ass and push their groins even harder together, feeling his partner’s arousal press insistently into his hip.

Shifting slightly, Illya wedges one thigh between Napoleon’s and is immediately rewarded by a delicious whimper as he writhes in Illya’s grasp. His hips stutter forward and one of his legs comes up to hook around Illya’s hip as his mouth works down to Illya’s collar, nimble fingers already unbuttoning his shirt. Somewhere in his pleasure-addled mind, Illya knows that their current position is untenable, precarious as it is. Pressing Napoleon back into the table is an option, as is dragging him backward toward the bed, but the current position of Napoleon’s leg gives him an idea that is at once ridiculous and irresistable.

“Hold on,” he manages—half a groan, half a sigh—then positions his hands under Napoleon’s thighs and lifts.

“Hngk,” Napoleon gulps in surprise as his strong thighs clamp tightly around Illya’s hips. He pulls back to stare at Illya, eyes wide, and Illya doesn’t try to suppress the broad grin that tugs at his lips. “Dear god, Illya,” he huffs. “I’m not sure you’re entirely human.”

“Hush, you,” Illya grunts out, quite unable to hold a conversation at the moment.

Napoleon is by no means a small man, but there are benefits to spending months out of the year shoveling rocks and dirt around. Still, it’s a good thing that the bed is only steps away. Illya shifts one arm to wrap around Napoleon’s waist and makes his move, half walking, half stumbling until his shins hit the bed frame. _Good enough_ , he thinks, and drops Napoleon unceremoniously onto mattress. It’s unclear whether the loud squeak that results is a product of the bed, Napoleon, or some combination of the two.

Illya kicks out of his shoes and bends over the bed toward Napoleon, leaning one knee on the mattress between his legs and fisting the front of his shirt to haul him back up into a kiss. He relinquishes his hold only so he can focus instead on unbuttoning Napoleon’s shirt and waistcoat, dipping his head to kiss and suck and nip the skin he’s newly exposing.

Napoleon shudders under him, his hands clutching desperately in Illya’s hair as his back arcs up into Illya’s touch. His shirt falls open easily, already untucked as it is, and Illya bends lower to take an already-taut nipple in his mouth as he pushes his fingers through Napoleon’s dark chest hair.

“Peril,” Napoleon suddenly croaks, “Illya, wait—” The words are bitten off, like he’s forcing them out, and when Illya looks up his eyes are screwed shut.

“What is it, Cowboy?” he asks, freezing in place, hands still splayed over Napoleon’s bare chest. Maybe it’s nothing, maybe it’s just a brief pause, but maybe… He doesn’t want to think about the possibility that Napoleon is having second thoughts about this. About them.

Napoleon breath hitches as he opens his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, and Illya thinks he reads something like fear through the haze of raw desire in them. “Are you—” he says, swallowing hard, “are you sure you want this?”

The question seems so utterly absurd given their current positions— _he_ is the one bending over a rather debauched-looking Napoleon, after all—that Illya could almost laugh, but he doesn’t. Even now, Napoleon is clearly terrified that this can’t be real, that it will all be ripped away from him. The ache in Illya’s chest returns with a vengeance, and he slides a hand up to cup Napoleon’s cheek tenderly.

“I want this,” he says quietly, willing all of the feelings he can’t quite speak yet into his voice. “I am sure.” He watches as unmistakable relief floods into Napoleon’s face and reaches up to push the wayward curl off his forehead. “Are you?”

“God, yes,” Napoleon breathes. A slow smile slides onto his lips and he reaches up to grab at Illya’s shirt, pulling him down into another kiss.

Illya was wrong, as it turns out. They go slow after that, or more slowly than he had expected from those first frantic kisses. Napoleon’s nimble fingers make short work of his shirt and pants, but then they linger as they trace paths on his skin, leaving a strange combination of fire and goosebumps in their wake. Every touch, every kiss, every press of skin leaves him breathless and aching for more, and somehow there is always more to give.

A blistering warmth grows inside him, pressing into every joint and bone until his senses are nearly overwhelmed by it. The world dims around him until all he can see is the ocean blue of Napoleon’s eyes, pupils blown wide and dark with desire and something more lingering in their marine depths. All he can taste is the sweet smokiness of the Scotch on both their tongues and the salt of Napoleon’s skin. All he can hear is his name on Napoleon’s lips, and the sounds of sweat-slicked flesh and wet kisses, and his own voice breaking with emotion.

All he can feel is the drag of Napoleon’s palms and the press of his fingers and the wet heat of his mouth, until even these things are lost, whited out in an ecstasy so sweet it is nearly unbearable.

Afterward they lay in the lingering glow, tangled in the sheets and each other’s limbs. Illya stares off into space, letting his mind wander as Napoleon continues his apparent quest to map every inch of his body with kisses. He’s currently working his way lazily across Illya’s chest, pressing his lips featherlight to still-flushed skin.

Illya thinks of their history, of the years in grad school before their feud, of how he’d admired the other boy for, yes, his good looks, but also his charm and his wit and incisiveness. He thinks of how what might have been friendship had soured, of how it had felt inevitable at the time, and he allows himself to wonder what might have happened had circumstances been different. Had advisors and partners and outside parties encouraged them to collaborate instead of fomenting discord. Might they have had this sooner? Or did they need time to mature and grow before they had a chance to see what could be theirs?

He thinks of the future. It’s not a habit he allows often; there are too many variables to consider, too many things that can change to spend time dreaming of what might be. In this moment, though, when everything seems poised to open up before him in a way he never imagined, he permits himself the indulgence. Napoleon could get the job and move to Chicago. The thing that most academic couples struggle for years to achieve, especially those in the same field, has the potential to be handed to them, and it feels almost impossible to believe. Even if he doesn’t get this job, there are lots of colleges in Chicago. Or Illya could move, get a job somewhere else; he doesn’t really want to, he likes his department and the school and the city, but he knows in this moment that he would do it. He would follow Napoleon. The thought should be terrifying, but somehow it isn’t.

Through all of it, he keeps coming back to the lingering, unanswered question. He doesn’t know why this one thing plagues him so, why it matters to him like it does. It’s possibly too much to ask at this point, and it’s possible that he won’t care for the answer. He makes up his mind to ask it anyway.

“Cowboy? Can I ask you a question?”

Napoleon halts in his progress across Illya’s chest and tips his head to look up at him. “Anything, Peril.”

“Why did you apply for the job?”

A slow smile creeps onto Napoleon’s lips and he laughs softly before picking up where he left off. “Is this part of your interview process now? I can give you my prepared answer,” he says between kisses. “That I fell in love with the school when I visited, that I greatly enjoyed talking to the wonderful students, that I feel that my strengths will complement the department well.”

“What’s the real answer?” Illya asks breathlessly.

“Because I fell in love with _you_ on that trip to Chicago,” Napoleon says, pausing again to rest his chin on Illya’s chest and stare up at him. His eyes are utterly unguarded, and the intensity of the emotion of in them makes Illya forget to breathe entirely. “Because I want to be with you, more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life. And,” he adds, a smirk pulling up the corner of his mouth, “because I don’t want to be unemployed next year.”

Illya chokes on a laugh, looking up at the ceiling again as he desperately tries to fight back the sting of tears in his eyes. The answer is everything he’d wished for and more. Despite everything that had happened between them, he’d applied because he still had feelings for him. Napoleon wants to be with him. Napoleon _loves_ him.

“You’re impossible,” Illya says, his voice thick in his throat.

Napoleon is grinning up at him when Illya looks down again. “You love it,” he says.

It’s clearly more than he intended to say because his eyes immediately go wide and the grin slides off his face. He looks like he’s about to stammer out an apology, to try to take back his presumption, but Illya can’t allow that. He tightens the arm still wrapped around Napoleon and lifts his other hand to trail his fingers lightly along his cheek.

“I do,” he confirms quietly.

There are tears still shining in his eyes and the smile on his lips is probably far too sappy, but he doesn’t care. A look of unfettered joy blooms on Napoleon’s face and it’s really more than his heart can take, so Illya drags him up into another kiss. It’s sloppy and emotional and he tastes salt as the stupid tears escape his eyes anyway, and it’s utterly perfect.

Illya feels a rush of blood to his groin as Napoleon pushes further onto him again, butan abrupt growl from one of their stomachs puts a swift end to that. They dissolve into fits of laughter and Napoleon buries his face in Illya’s shoulder as he catches his breath.

“I guess it is just about dinner time,” Napoleon huffs. “Plans?”

“I’m supposed to go to some Thai place with Gaby,” Illya says. “You should come with us.”

Napoleon lifts his head and gives a skeptical quirk of his eyebrows. “Sure that’s a good idea?”  
  
“Why not? You’re friends again, no?”  
  
“We are,” Napoleon confirms slowly. His brow furrows like he’s not quite sure how Illya knows this, but he doesn’t ask. “I was more thinking she might not find the prospect of dining with a pair of love-struck idiots that appealing.”

Illya snorts a laugh. “This is her fault anyway. She told me to come here, tell you how I feel. She can deal with the consequences.”

“Fair enough,” Napoleon grins. “Considering we only have a couple days left here I’d rather not let you out of my sight for that long anyway.”

Illya can’t say he disagrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG YAY! 🎉 I hope the payoff was worth the wait and all the angst. Writing this was so so satisfying.
> 
> Now featuring [gorgeous artwork](https://cha-melodius.tumblr.com/post/639053320468807680/but-the-current-position-of-napoleons-leg-gives) commissioned from tumblr user daryshkart for a scene in this chapter.
> 
> Their story definitely isn't over—there's more than 10k still to come—but it's pretty much all fluff and good feels from here on out. Thank you once again for all your enthusiasm for this little story, which is so close to my heart. It makes me so unbelievably happy to hear how much you are enjoying it!


	9. Chicago Interview, March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon interviews for a pretty important job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys are ready for ridiculous amounts of fluff and our boys being too happy and adorable, because that's what you're getting. 😆
> 
> Please note that this chapter has bumped the rating on work up to Mature.

_Nescit amor habere modum._  
(Love does not know how to stay within limits)  
—Propertius

Somehow the ride from the airport takes twice as long as it should. Realistically Napoleon knows that it doesn’t, that the time-space continuum isn’t actively folding to keep him from the man he loves, but it sure feels that way.

The very kind, very British man chattering away next to him isn’t helping things. And unlike last time, this is an interview. Nearly every moment that he’s on the ground in Chicago is an interview, so when his phone buzzes in his pocket he doesn’t even think about pulling it out. He’d texted Illya when he landed, during the brief period before he’d stepped out into the loading area of the airport and seen Waverly’s car waiting for him, but he hadn’t gotten to see any of the replies.

He knows Illya had offered to pick him up at the airport—and oh, that would have been delightful, to have these moments before he was thrown to the wolves—but Waverly had apparently waved him off and said really it was no trouble at all. It wasn’t like Illya could press the issue; they had both agreed that keeping their relationship a secret from everyone but Gaby was the best move, at least until the search was over. So, instead of getting to kiss his boyfriend for the first time in more than a month, Napoleon gets to answer non-interview interview questions from the man he hopes will be his future boss.

“Illya tells me that you two have recently begun a new collaboration,” Waverly says amiably as they reach the edge of campus.

Napoleon almost chokes before he realizes that the department chair is talking about the _professional_ collaboration they’d talked about idly in the lead up to his visit and not using a somewhat unusual euphemism.

“Yeah, it’s been great,” he replies with genuine enthusiasm; it’s always nice when it doesn’t have to be feigned, unlike all those things he has to pretend to be excited about during an interview. “Really, it started a couple of years ago. He found this fragment of amphora that really fit perfectly into a grant proposal I wrote and he offered to let me work on it. Recently we’ve decided to expand it to incorporate some more artifacts from his fieldwork. I’m planning to resubmit the proposal with the additions and I think that the new stuff will really help sell it.”

Waverly glances at him with a pleased smile before turning his attention back to the road. “Wonderful! I suppose having you here would certainly make that easier.”

“Oh yes, certainly,” Napoleon agrees. Of course, that kind of collaboration could happen fairly easily no matter where they were located, but he’ll take the excuse when it’s given to him.

“We’ll head directly to the restaurant tonight,” Waverly tells him. “Same place as last time, I’m afraid.”

_At least he remembers_ , Napoleon thinks. “Not a problem. The food was delicious. Happy to eat there again.”

“Excellent. Tomorrow night we’ll venture downtown, I think. How do you feel about pizza?”  
  
Well, that’s a loaded question in Chicago, even if it is being asked by a Brit. But he’s not about to launch into a dissertation about pizza styles right now, so he smiles and is happy to be able to honestly say, “I’m a big fan of all kinds.”

It seems he passes this first challenge, because Waverly chuckles softly to himself. The restaurant isn’t far now and Waverly fills the remaining time with a gauntlet of questions that leave Napoleon feeling like he needs a breather by the time he steps out of the car. He doesn’t get it, though, and knows he won’t get a real one until the hotel room door closes behind him tonight.

He still hasn’t had a chance to check his phone, so he has no idea what messages Illya has sent him when they step into the restaurant and he sees the telltale blond hair and checkered shirt, a tweed blazer hung over the back of the chair. It doesn’t matter that Illya is facing away from him (and honestly it's probably better that way), his heart still gives an almost painful lurch in his chest. It takes all of his considerable experience controlling his face to keep from grinning like a loon.

Gaby is sitting across from Illya this time, and a small, smug smile curls her lips when she sees Napoleon approach. She gives a minute nod and Illya twists in his chair a hair too quickly, the smile on his face giving entirely too much away. It fills Napoleon with a searing warmth, even as he really wishes Illya would cool it because Waverly is standing _right there_. He should have known that they wouldn’t be able to see each other after a month apart and properly contain themselves.

This time Illya has positioned himself next to one of the two open chairs, and there must be a god because Waverly gestures that Napoleon should take that one after he points out everyone sitting around the table. He nods his greetings and takes his seat, being careful to avoid leaning too close to Illya as he does so. Illya, for his part, immediately presses his knee up against Napoleon’s under the table, because apparently the man has no impulse control. Napoleon simply does his best to make it look like he’s not vibrating out of his skin.

In the end, he gets quickly distracted by conversation with other members of the department. He finds meals like this some of the most stressful parts of the interview process, the times when you’re not _technically_ being interviewed but of course you are. The questions are lighthearted and informal, but lord help you if you misstep on the first night. It could color the entire next two days. The difference this time is that Illya is next to him, and the contact of their legs becomes a grounding presence through it all. Occasionally Illya’s hand slips onto his knee to give an affectionate squeeze, and every time it sends a burst of tingling warmth through him.

Napoleon thinks he’s never been so on point and charming as he is tonight. It’s surprisingly exhilarating.

Midway through the dinner he excuses himself to the restroom, more for a breather than to actually use the facilities. After he locks the door he fishes his phone out of his pocket and smiles down at the unread texts on his lock screen. Swiping it open, he scrolls up to the first one, after his own text saying he’d arrived.

**Good to hear**   
**How was your flight**   
**I guess Waverly caught you right away then**   
**We’re heading over to the restaurant soon**   
**Faculty only this time so you won’t have to deal with the students tonight**   
**Gaby says I should stop tempting you to read your texts**   
**I told her you know better than that**   
**You’re going to be amazing**   
**I love you Cowboy**

Napoleon allows himself to grin like an idiot for several minutes before taking a few deep breaths. He’s about hit the limit of the amount of time he can reasonably spend in here before he starts raising eyebrows, so he sends a quick text in reply before stepping back out into the restaurant.

**Love you too Peril**

It probably wasn’t the smartest idea, because Illya can certainly check his own phone in the middle of the dinner. It’s obvious he’s already read it by the time Napoleon reappears; there’s an utterly smitten look on his face, but at least Napoleon can take comfort that everyone at the table is paying attention to him and not his sappy boyfriend. Everyone except Gaby, that is, who is rolling her eyes dramatically at the both of them.

Napoleon is pretty sure that this will be simultaneously the easiest, hardest, and most important interview of his career.

No pressure.

* * *

If he’s being honest, the knock on his hotel room door comes a bit too soon after he’d been dropped off by Waverly for the night. In fact, it’s so quick he thinks there’s a chance it could actually _be_ Waverly—maybe Napoleon forgot something in his car—but when he opens the door to peer out he’s immediately pushed backward into the room by a very large Russian.

Illya’s lips are on his before the door has even closed. It’s been almost two months since the conference and they’ve spent hours on the phone every day of it, but nothing compares to this. Illya wastes no time in yanking Napoleon’s shirt out of his pants and sliding his hand underneath, and his urgency makes Napoleon laugh into the kiss.

“Geez, Peril, enthusiastic much? Where’s the fire?”

Illya barely pauses from where he’s currently kissing his way along Napoleon’s neck. “I haven’t gotten to touch you in two months,” he murmurs against the shell of Napoleon’s ear as he splays his hand across the skin of his lower back, and the heat in his voice makes something clench deep in Napoleon’s gut.

It’s not strictly true, because of course Illya has been somehow finding ways to touch him _all night_ , but Napoleon has to concede the point anyway. It certainly hasn’t been like this, setting his every nerve ending aflame. If he thought he remembered what it was like to have Illya’s hands all over him, he was sorely mistaken, because this is so much better.

“Not much for chitchat tonight, are you?” Napoleon teases, even as he reaches up to push the jacket off Illya’s shoulders.

Illya shrugs it off, leaving it in a crumple heap on the floor as he pushes Napoleon backward toward the bed. “You didn’t talk enough tonight?” he huffs between kisses.

“Not to you,” Napoleon points out. He kicks out of his shoes and his fingers begin moving rapidly down the buttons of Illya’s shirt

“Oh? Well, then, how was your flight, Cowboy?”  
  
Napoleon huffs a laugh. “Good. A little turbulence—ah!” he sighs sharply as Illya sucks more determinedly on his collarbone, “—over Lake Michigan.”  
  
“As usual,” Illya says, smiling through his kisses. Now he’s finished unbuttoning Napoleon’s shirt and pulls it off, setting to work on his belt. “And your ride from the airport? Waverly grill you?”  
  
“Only a bit. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Illya hums at that and palms Napoleon’s rapidly hardening erection through his trousers, eliciting a low groan from his throat. “I’m sure,” he murmurs as they finally hit the bed.

He pushes Napoleon down onto the mattress then immediately sinks down in front of him, hooking his fingers into his already unfastened pants and underwear at the same time. With a swift yank, he pulls them down and off, leaving Napoleon in only his socks.

“You were amazing at dinner,” Illya practically purrs, his warm breath washing over Napoleon’s bare skin. He presses a line of wet kisses up Napoleon’s inner thigh, then noses into the crease of his hip. “Blew them away.”

The deep rumble of Illya’s voice goes right to the base of his cock, and Napoleon’s eyelids flutter as his eyes roll back in his head at the feeling of it. “God, Peril,” he rasps, “you can’t _say_ things like that when you’re doing _that_.”

Illya hums and then licks a long stripe up Napoleon’s cock before wrapping his lips around the head of it. His tongue swirls _just so_ as he pushes deeper, and Napoleon gasps, his hips bucking forward a fraction before he can stop them. The movement doesn’t break Illya’s rhythm, though; he just smiles around Napoleon’s cock and presses one large hand over the crest of his hip, pinning him effectively to the bed.

“Ughh, _Illya_ ,” Napoleon groans, one hand twining fingers into blond hair as the other fists the sheets tightly in a desperate attempt to maintain some thread of control. “I can’t— I’m not gonna be able to hold on—”

Illya pauses, pulling away just enough that his lips still brush over Napoleon’s skin. “You don’t have to, Cowboy.”

Somehow Illya is still wearing his shirt, though it hangs open at it’s front, and Napoleon manages to grab hold of his collar and haul him upward. Of course he only succeeds because Illya lets him, acquiesces to be dragged into a kiss as Napoleon’s other hand rapidly unfasten his jeans. Before he pushes them off Illya’s hips he jams his hand into one of the pockets and fishes out a condom and a packet of lube.

“Someone came prepared,” Napoleon grins against Illya’s lips as he encourages Illya to shed his remaining clothes.

“How could you possibly know those were in there?” Illya huffs, trying to look exasperated but failing miserably.  
  
“Lucky guess.”

Illya plucks the packet of lube out of his hand but doesn’t immediately _do_ anything with it, no, the bastard just wraps his other hand around Napoleon’s aching cock and drags slowly upward, swallowing Napoleon’s moans with another kiss.

Napoleon digs his fingers into Illya’s shoulder hard enough that he’s sure there will be a series of bruises there in the morning and breaks away, glaring at him. “Really, Peril, were you _planning_ on torturing me tonight, or did you decide when you got here, because if you don’t— _mmphf!_ ”

He’s cut off by another kiss before Illya pulls back again and tears open the packet with his teeth, squeezing lube out onto his fingers. “Clearly it’s not working, because you are still _talking_ ,” he growls teasingly.

“See, I think you have that backward, because typically you torture people when you _want_ them to talk, but—ohh!”

And then—then there is no more talking, save a few gasped curses and sighed names, but really, those hardly count.

* * *

“I don’t know _how_ you managed this, but I will love you forever,” Napoleon sighs as he collapses into the tiny backseat of Illya’s car.

Ok, so the seating arrangements weren’t the most desirable because _someone_ insisted that she had permanent shotgun claim, and who could have guessed that such a large man would own such a small car? But Napoleon would happily cram himself into the most compact of spaces for the chance to not have to talk to anyone on the search committee for the next half hour at least.

Illya glances back at him in the rearview mirror, smirking. “Is that all it takes, then? Saving you from my colleagues for the time it takes to drive to the restaurant?”  
  
“Yes. My hero,” Napoleon coos, batting his eyelashes.

“Ugh, don’t make me regret not riding with Waverly,” Gaby groans, then follows it with an exaggerated fake gag. Napoleon kicks the back of her seat. “Hey!”

“That’s what you get for not letting me sit in the front so I can steal kisses from my boyfriend.”  
  
“Then I really might throw up. Besides, you can’t kiss him. He’s _driving_.”

“You may not be aware, but there are these things called _red lights_ during which no driving is required,” Napoleon points out.

Gaby turns in the seat so he can see her roll her eyes at him. “You’re such a child. _Illya_ is more responsible than that.”

For his part, Illya hums uncertainly at this statement, the corners of his lips twitching upward, and Napoleon lets out a triumphant “Hah!”

“You are a terrible influence,” Gaby huffs. “The worst.”

“You love me anyway,” Napoleon grins.

“Lord, what did I do to deserve this?” she asks the ceiling of the car instead of denying it.

A red light stops them at Lakeshore Drive, and Napoleon makes it a whole thirty seconds before he petulantly mumbles, “See? We could be kissing now.”

“I will hurl myself out of this car and into the lake,” Gaby threatens, but the heat of it is lost in her laughter.

“Children,” Illya says before Napoleon can come up with another retort. “Are you really going to bicker the entire way there?”  
  
“Yes,” Napoleon answers, even as Gaby says, “No!” at the same time.

Illya glares at them, still fighting a smile. “I will throw you both in the lake, and Cowboy will have to explain to the committee why he is soaking wet at dinner.”

“You wouldn’t!” Napoleon says as he narrows his eyes at Illya’s reflection in the rearview mirror. Gaby just cackles with glee, no doubt at the mental picture of Napoleon showing up as a drowned rat at the restaurant. With a huff, he crosses his arms over his front and slumps back in the seat, pretending to pout at this indignity.

They make good time, driving in the opposite direction of the prevailing rush hour traffic. Which is a good and a bad thing, because no one likes to be caught in traffic, but it also means that his time ‘off’ from the interview is rapidly shrinking.

“Where are we going, anyway? Pizzeria Uno?” Napoleon asks after a bit, watching the lights of the city sparkle on the dark water of the lake.

“Due,” Gaby answers. “Uno is for tourists.”

“They’re both full of tourists. We could have just stayed in Hyde Park and gotten Giordano’s,” Illya grumbles.

Napoleon can practically see her roll her eyes despite the fact that she’s facing away from him. “Well Due is less so. I like their sauce better anyway. And no one made you volunteer to drive.”

“We would not fit in your car. We barely fit when it is just you and me.”

“Wait, you don’t still have that old Miata that you drove in grad school, do you?” Napoleon gapes, sitting forward in his seat again.

“I do,” Gaby confirms as she juts her chin in the air defiantly. “And she’s not old, she’s a classic.”

Napoleon puts his hands up in surrender. He knows better than to argue with her about the car. She loves that thing like it’s her child.

“Don’t make any snide comments about Chicago pizza, Cowboy,” Illya warns, glancing back at Napoleon again as he pulls into a parking garage downtown. “Lincoln is from the area originally.”

“I would _never_ ,” Napoleon says with an offended expression that they would think he would even consider such a faux pas. Then he grins. “It is delicious, after all. Even if it is more properly a cheese-and-tomato pie.”

“See, that right there—”

“ _Kidding_ , Peril. You act like I don’t know how to interview for a job.”

It’s Illya’s turn to grin, mischief twinkling in his eye. “Well, you did not get this one the first time around…”  
  
“Oh, fuck you!” Napoleon laughs. “I’ll have you know some Russian asshole stole that job from me.”

They pull into a parking space and Illya twists in his chair after he turns the car off, looking back between the seats. “Is that so? Sounds like a jerk.”

“The worst,” Napoleon agrees, leaning forward to kiss him.

“All right, I’m leaving,” Gaby announces as she opens her door and climbs out. “You two can explain to Waverly that you were delayed because you had to make out in the car.”

Napoleon does _not_ whimper when Illya pulls away and climbs out of the front seat, absolutely not.

“C’mon, Cowboy,” he says, opening Napoleon’s door for him like some kind of gentleman. “I’ll make it up to you later.”  
  
“Oh will you?” Napoleon asks, arching a brow at him as he climbs out of the car. “And how is that?”

“DON’T YOU DARE ANSWER THAT!” Gaby yells across the garage.

Napoleon steals one last kiss from Illya through their laughter before they hurry to catch up with her.

* * *

“Ah, Solo,” Waverly says genially, stepping back and holding the door open for him. “Do come in.”

Even though he’s been in Waverly’s office many times at this point, Napoleon will never get over the sheer volume of books and papers that the man has managed to cram into the space. He supposes it must be a fairly large office, but between the towers of documents on every available surface and the floor to ceiling bookshelves lining every wall, it feels far smaller than most of the other faculty’s.

He will also never get over how every time he comes in, Waverly has to move a pile of books off the one chair other than his own. For Christ’s sake, he was in here _yesterday_ for a meeting. Does he do this every time a student comes in? Is it really so hard to find a home for those items other than the chair? (The answer to the latter question seems to be an emphatic yes.)

“I hope you’ve had a good visit?” Waverly asks.

“Excellent,” Napoleon smiles as he takes the newly-cleared seat. And it has been, far moreso than any other job interview he’s had to bear. Sure, hiding his relationship with Illya had led to some added stress, but it was more than compensated by the stress _relief_ he got in the evenings. “I always very much enjoy my time here.”

“Wonderful, wonderful,” Waverly says. “The students say they had a very engaging lunch with you today.”

Napoleon allows a little chuckle. He’d let them take the lead on the conversation, which had resulted in topics as far ranging as ancient Etruscans to the latest TikToks (at which Napoleon had, of course, smiled and pretended to know what they were talking about). “They’re a lively bunch. I just do my best to keep up with them.”

“Ah yes, don’t we all. Though I daresay you probably do a better job than me. Feels like they get younger every year.”

“That it does,” Napoleon agrees, smiling easily.

He’s relatively relaxed at this point; as relaxed as he can be, anyway. The interview is technically over apart from this final wrap-up, and he’s pretty sure it went very well. Nothing is a certainty, of course, and he doesn’t know how the other candidates will do, but he feels good. Which is why Waverly’s next question takes him completely off-guard.

“And I trust that you and Illya have been able to spend some pleasant evenings together?”

Napoleon’s heart seems to stop for a moment before beginning to hammer wildly against his ribs. The smile freezes on his face and he can’t seem to make it relax into anything resembling a natural expression. How could Waverly possibly know? Did _everyone_? He thought they’d been so careful.

“I—uh—I’m not sure exactly what you mean—” he stammers, trying unsuccessfully to come up with a convincing lie.

Waverly just smiles at him pleasantly, like he didn’t just drop a bomb. “It’s quite all right, Solo, you don’t have to deny it. I’ve known for quite some time now.”

“How?” Napoleon knows it’s not quite what he should be asking, that the safest thing to do would be to try to skirt around the topic and try to bring things back to the realm of the appropriate, but it seems they’ve gone far beyond that.

The department chair leans back in his chair and gives a small chuckle. “You’re not as subtle as you think, you know. That said, you shouldn’t worry about the others in the department. I think they’re quite oblivious. But, well, you see, I make it my business to know as much as I can about assets I’d like to acquire.”

“Assets,” Napoleon echoes distantly. This has very quickly become the most bizarre interview _ever_.

“I’m sure you both thought it best to keep everything quiet, and it some circumstances you would be right,” Waverly explains. “I thought you should know, though, that this administration has a history of seeing partner hires as an advantage. Klein’s wife works in the chemistry department, you know. Less likely to lose one or both to other positions, and no one likes searches. You understand that I’m not saying that you’ll get the offer; we do have several more interviews to conduct, and it is ultimately the committee’s decision, not mine.”  
  
“Of course,” Napoleon answers. He’s at a complete and utter loss for what to say to all of this. Waverly is, however, apparently only too happy to keep talking.

“I’ve been watching you carefully for some time, Solo, ever since you first applied here. You’ve had a very impressive career, and I think Sanders was a fool for not supporting you better. Of course, it was prudent to know who my faculty members were tangling with, professionally, but I always thought you would make better collaborators than rivals. I think the past couple of years have proved me right on that account, at least.”

Napoleon swallows hard and manages an awkward chuckle at that. “I guess so.”

“And now I should let you get going,” the department chair says as he pushes himself out of his chair and leans forward over the desk to extend a hand to Napoleon. “Traffic to the airport can be a bear at this time of day, but I’m sure Illya will manage to get you there in time for your flight,” he adds with a knowing smile.

“Thank you,” Napoleon replies, firmly grasping the proffered hand. “It’s certainly been an exceptional visit.”

* * *

“Waverly knows.”

Napoleon waited until they were both sitting in Illya’s car, away from all possible prying ears, to tell him. He knows his face probably looks a little grim, even though there isn’t much to be grim about, but he can’t quite help it. He knows _why_ Waverly said it, knows that it was well-intentioned, but that doesn’t make it any less disconcerting.

Illya’s eyebrows shoot upward, his own expression full of surprise and concern. “You ok, Cowboy?”  
  
“I’m fine,” Napoleon answers quickly, forcing a small smile onto his lips, “it’s fine. He was… supportive? I don’t know. It was just kind of weird.”

Illya hums thoughtfully, staring out of the windshield for a moment before he turns the car on. “He’s a good man. Just a little… old fashioned, sometimes.”

“Yeah, I know,” Napoleon says. “Said something about knowing as much as he could about assets he’d like to acquire.”

This, surprisingly, makes Illya chuckle softly. “He said something similar when I interviewed here. I didn’t know what to make of it at the time.”

“You do now?”

Illya shrugs. “He likes to think of the department as a team. Wants us to work well together.”  
  
“Then how did Victoria happen?” Napoleon snorts. He flicks through his phone absently as they drive, glancing at the emails he’s put off checking on for the last few days.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Illya says wryly. “You should know better than anyone how charming she can be when she wants to.”  
  
Napoleon shudders; he would decidedly not like to think about that. “Ugh, can we change the subject?”

“You’re the one who brought her up.” Illya glances at him, smirking, and Napoleon has to remind himself that he cannot simply kiss that smirk off his face like he wants to. He manages to wait until they’re stopped at a light before he pulls Illya into a brief kiss, smiling against his lips when Illya grumbles halfheartedly about having to concentrate on the road. “Gaby was right, you are a bad influence.”

They past the rest of the drive with idle chatter. Napoleon knows that neither of them are excited about the fact that he has to leave so soon, but it wasn’t like he could request to stick around longer without raising eyebrows. In a way it made the moments that they managed to steal during his visit more precious, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t desperately want more.

At the airport Illya parks the car in the short term lot despite Napoleon’s protests about the cost, because of course he insists on seeing him to the entrance to the security lines. He doesn’t have a ton of time before his flight—Waverly was right about the traffic, damn it—but they still make out in the car for as long as they can before he simply _must_ go. Even then, they stand in the middle of the airport, just outside security, and kiss like teenagers. It should be embarrassing, but Napoleon can’t find it in himself to care. They only break apart when the announcement that Napoleon’s flight is boarding soon comes over the loudspeakers, and he takes a moment to drink in the look on Illya’s face before he leaves: the bare pink flush on his cheeks, the kiss-bitten red of his lips, and the unadulterated love in his bright blue eyes.

Napoleon has to sprint across the airport to his gate, and it is completely worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you couldn't tell already, I used to live in Chicago. I gave all my pizza opinions to Napoleon and Gaby, although I actually like Giordano's just as much as Pizzeria Due.
> 
> Just a brief note that what Waverly does toward the end is really Not Cool in an interview, although it happens all the time, especially among the older faculty. I've had both nice, well-meaning people and not-so-well-meaning people ask questions about my partner in interviews, which are strictly not allowed. It's not my intention to make Waverly look bad here, but instead portray him as the kind of well-intentioned older department chair who would say things like this to be supportive and try to show that they don't really need to hide the relationship, even if he's not actually supposed to talk about it. Plus I wanted him to be kind of smug and all-knowing, lol.
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who's been loyally following this story, and I hope this and the next couple of chapters will be as satisfying to read as they were to write.


	10. New Haven & Chicago, Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Napoleon & Illya navigate a big move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More fluff! I take no responsibility for any cavities or diabetes brought on by these chapters. 😂😂😂

_Quos amor verus tenuit, tenebit._  
(True love will hold on to those whom it has held)  
—Seneca

Two days. _Two days_.

That’s how long Illya has to sit on the information that they plan to offer Napoleon the position. _Why_ on Earth Klein decided to announce the committee’s decision at their departmental meeting and then wait _two days_ to call Napoleon, he will never understand. Probably it has to do with some nonsense related to official letters and administration, but he can’t be bothered to care. He almost slips up not even 24 hours after finding out, during their evening phone call as they’re chatting about the day. Really, it probably wouldn’t be _that_ bad if Illya told him—he’s sure Napoleon could act like he didn’t know—but he doesn’t want to risk anything before the papers are signed.

So he metaphorically sits on his hands and waits until one day he picks up the phone to answer Napoleon’s call and hears, “how long have you known?”  
  
“Two days,” he answers miserably. “Sorry, Cowboy.”

“I don’t care,” Napoleon sighs, “I’m too happy to be annoyed. Though I still can’t believe it. It seems too good to be real.”

“I knew you’d get the offer, even before,” Illya says smugly. “The other candidates had nothing on you.”  
  
Napoleon huffs out a laugh. “I think you’re pretty biased, Peril.”

“Not so,” he counters, “you are getting the job, after all.”

“Oh god,” Napoleon groans suddenly. “I’m going to have to negotiate, and I haven’t done that in _years_. You’ll tell me what you got in startup?”

Illya smiles at his dramatics, affection blooming warm in his chest. “Of course, Cowboy. You should ask for your previous years as Assistant Professor to count toward tenure, you know. You could go up in your second year.”  
  
“You think that’s a good idea?” Napoleon asks skeptically.

“I know someone in Humanities who did it. Could get you her contact info so you can talk with her about the process.”

“That would be amazing. Oh god,” he says again, sounding completely overwhelmed in the best possible way. “This is really happening, isn’t it?”  
  
“It is,” Illya confirms. He’s grinning like a fool, but he doesn’t care. “When will you be able to get out here again?”  
  
“Ugh, not until classes are done in May. I’ll need to find someplace to live. Please tell me the housing market is better there than it is in New Haven?”

It’s like someone just dumped cold water on his head. Illya is immensely glad they are just on the phone and not video calling because he knows the smile just fell right off his face at this completely innocuous and understandable change in subject.

Up to this point, Illya had not permitted himself any daydreaming about what their lives would be like if Napoleon moved to Chicago. There had been too much uncertainty, too much room for disappointment if for some reason he didn’t get the position. At least, he thought he hadn’t allowed any fantasies, but now that the topic has been brought up so casually, he can see with stark clarity that he’d let them slip through. Tiny moments he wasn’t aware of, sprinkled throughout his daily life.

He’d be shopping at 57th Street Books and picture Napoleon around the corner, his nose buried in some art book. Running on the lakefront path and envisioning Napoleonjogging beside him. Buying coffee at the campus bookstore cafe near his office and expecting Napoleon to be hemming and hawing over his order. And the most damning of all: being in his own home, cooking dinner or curled up on the couch reading or getting ready for bed, and imagining that Napoleon would be there, in every moment of it.

It’s a stupid idea, he tells himself. They’ve only been actually dating for a few months, even if sometimes it feels like they’ve been in some kind of long-distance relationship for a large chunk of the last two years. Of course Napoleon would want his own place, someplace to decorate and arrange and make his own. That isn’t something Illya gets to feel upset about. Of course, this thought does nothing to quell the bitter disappointment surging through his chest. He swallows hard and hopes it isn’t noticeable in his voice.

“Couldn’t say. But it’s not great.”

“I’m not surprised,” Napoleon replies, sighing. “Well, so it goes. Hopefully I’ll get a good price for my condo here.”

Illya hums his agreement and decides to change the subject. “So what you’re telling me is I won’t get to see my boyfriend for another two months?”

“Hey, I’m not the one who’s not teaching this semester. Quarter. Whatever. That’s going to be hard to get used to.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” Illya says absently, because a new idea is forming in his mind. He almost doesn’t hear Napoleon say that he has to get to class now and that they’ll talk later. “Mmhmm,” he agrees without really knowing what he’s agreeing to. “Love you too, Cowboy.”

  
  


* * *

This is, perhaps, the most ridiculous thing he’s ever done.

Illya stands outside of Phelps Hall, hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans. It’s a pleasant spring day in New Haven, much warmer than Chicago, though there’s still a crispness to the April day, a bite to the wind that ruffles his hair and steals into the open collar of his button-down shirt. He left his jacket in the rental car, and Napoleon will probably give him shit about it later.

A broad grin he doesn’t try to hide lights up his face at the thought. He knows Napoleon’s schedule and knows he has office hours now. Staring up at the fourth-floor windows above him, he wonders which one is his. Wonders if he might look out and see Illya standing there, or if he’s swamped by students. It might have been preferable to show up some other time, but this was the only window in which he knew where Napoleon would be for sure.

Illya checks his watch. Ten minutes until the office hours are over, and then he can drag Napoleon to lunch somewhere. If there aren’t any students around, maybe they can sneak away early. What are they going to do if Napoleon does skip out on some of his obligations today? Fire him?

There are, unfortunately, voices coming from Napoleon’s office as Illya quietly steals down the hall. He creeps as close as he dares, unable to quite stop himself from trying to catch a glimpse inside the office. Napoleon is leaning over the desk, looking at a notebook pushed into the middle by a student sitting opposite him. He’s patiently explaining some minutae of Latin grammar, and Illya feels a burst of warmth in his chest at the sight. He steps away down the hall again, idly looking at some student research posters hung on the walls as he waits.

“Kuryakin,” a cold voice says from behind him. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Illya turns to see Sanders glowering from down the hall, his eyes narrowed suspiciously and his mouth turned into a hard frown. As far as he knows, Illya has done nothing to deserve such scruitiny other than exist. For some people, that is enough. He’s aware that there was bad blood between Sanders and Oleg, his Masters advisor back in Russia, but he doesn’t know the specifics and, until this point, he’s managed to avoid interacting with the American altogether.

“Visiting a friend,” Illya answers curtly, then turns back to the poster he’d been reading. He, on the other hand, has plenty of reasons to dislike Sanders after hearing about him from Napoleon for the last two years, and no desire to engage.

“I didn’t know there were any _friends_ of yours in this department,” Sanders bites out, apparently not willing to mind his own business. “Not many around here who have much patience for your kind.”  
  
Illya inhales sharply and feels his fingers reflexively curl into fists at his sides. He did not come here to start a fight. He did _not_ come here to start a fight. He turns slowly, gritting out his words from between clenched teeth. “And what kind is that? Russians? Archaeologists? Rational people?”

Sanders opens his mouth, but whatever nonsense he was about to say is promptly interrupted by another voice.

“Peril?!” Napoleon cries, having apparently just emerged from his office. Even without seeing him, Illya can hear the shock and delight in his voice, and he curses the fact that Sanders is here spoiling the moment.

Illya turns as Napoleon rushes up behind him, feeling the tension drain away from his body and his face split into a wide grin at the sight of him. The urge to sweep him into his arms is nearly overwhelming, but _goddamn_ Sanders is still standing there, gawking at them. They still aren’t really ‘public’ with their relationship, though they aren’t actively hiding it anymore either, and some small part of him warns about propriety. Napoleon stops short, hovering without touching even though he’s clearly itching to do so, and Illya watches as he glances over to Sanders and then back up at Illya, uncertainty marring the joy on his face.

It’s then that Illya realizes he doesn’t give a shit about anyone else. Why should he care what Sanders thinks? The man means less than nothing to him. Fuck propriety. He surrenders to the impulse to wrap Napoleon up in his arms and pull him into a short, chaste kiss. Napoleon makes a soft noise of surprise against his lips but rapidly melts into his embrace, and Illya knows he’ll never regret this.

“Hey Cowboy,” he says softly as they separate only slightly. “Surprised to see me?”

“Surprise is not a strong enough word,” Napoleon huffs. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are still wide, and it really is all Illya can do not to pull him back into a rather less appropriate public display of affection. “Peril, I—”

“What the hell is going on here?!” Sanders demands, looking nearly apoplectic.

Illya’s mouth thins to a hard line again as he turns on the man. “Are you really that stupid?”

“This is— _this is_ —” Sanders stammers with ill-concealed fury, “ _wholly_ unprofessional! Inappropriate! How dare you turn this department into some kind of—”

“Oh, fuck off,” Napoleon says, rolling his eyes. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“Like hell it doesn’t! This is _my_ department, and you are _my_ employee—” Sanders snarls.

“Funny thing about not renewing someone’s contract,” Napoleon breaks in. “Turns out you can’t do shit to them. _Not_ that I’ve done anything against campus regulations. I’ve never seen you say anything about Bailey kissing his wife when she drops by to bring him lunch.”

“You little—”

“Turn around, walk away,” Illya says, his voice low and hard.

Sanders sputters at them for a few moments more, then takes a step back. “This isn’t over.”

“Yeah, it is,” Napoleon retorts. “Now leave us alone before I go file a harassment complaint with the campus diversity officer.”

The threat is enough to make Sanders’ eyes go wide and his face pale. Somehow, some sense of self-preservation must get through to him because his mouth opens and closes again before he turns and storms off. Illya watches him go, a bitter taste lingering in his mouth from the encounter.

“I think that he is quite possibly the worst person I have ever had the displeasure of meeting,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, that’s about the sum of it,” Napoleon agrees. Then he grabs Illya’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and gives a small tug back toward his office. “C’mon, forget about him. I need you in my office _now_ so I can give you a proper welcome.”

A smile fights its way onto Illya’s face at that, and he lets himself be led down the hall and hustled through the door, which is shut rather firmly behind them. He only has a minute to take in the neat space before Napoleon is crowding him up against the desk and kissing him quite thoroughly. When they come up for air a few minutes later, Napoleon's face is flushed and his eyes are sparkling with joy.

“So are you going to tell me why you’re here, or are you going to make me guess?” Napoleon asks playfully.

“What do you think, Cowboy?” Illya chuckles. “I can’t come to visit my boyfriend?”  
  
Napoleon huffs slightly, looking delighted in his exasperation. “Well, of course you can, but I don’t understand…”

“You said it yourself,” Illya explains. “You are teaching, I am not. I decided, why not visit the east coast? There are some museum collections for me to see in New York. And if that means I can also see you…” He trails off, leaving the rest unsaid with a grin.

“Oh my god, Peril, you’re incredible,” Napoleon says before swooping back in for another kiss. “You have no idea how much I needed this.”

Illya cocks an eyebrow at him. “I think I did. I’m the one who has to listen to you be stressed out about the end of the semester and packing and all the rest, remember?”

“When’d you get in? What’s your schedule? Are you staying in New York? How long are you here?” Napoleon rattles off a series of rapid-fire questions as he walks around his desk to grab a jacket. “You’re free for lunch, right? Don’t tell me you have to run off to the Peabody or something…”  
  
“I’m here for you, Cowboy,” Illya says, snagging him by the arm as he comes back around the desk and kissing him again. “For a week. I have no schedule. AMNH collections manager said I can come in whenever. I figure I can take the train to the city. As you say, it’s not that far.”

“A week,” Napoleon groans happily against Illya’s lips as he slides his arms around Illya’s waist again. For a moment they lose themselves in kisses before Napoleon drags himself away, biting his lip thoughtfully. “Mmm, much as I’d love to make out with you all day in here, I am _starving_.”

“Let’s get lunch,” Illya agrees, trying to hold back his laughter.

By some miracle, they actually make it out of the office without too many more pauses for stolen kisses. As they walk through the halls of the building and out into the crisp spring air, Illya’s hand finds Napoleon’s and he lets their fingers tangle together because they can. For pretty much the first time since all of this started he doesn’t have to pretend to himself or anyone else that Napoleon is just a friend, and it feels incredible. From the way he keeps catching Napoleon grinning like a fool at him, his boyfriend is having similar thoughts.

“So wait, where _are_ you staying?” Napoleon asks, his brow furrowing slightly.

“Ah, well,” Illya says, trying to fight back a flush of heat to his cheeks. This was, of course, the part that was truly ridiculous. He couldn’t very well just invite himself to stay at Napoleon’s, especially since he knew that he was in the middle of packing up his house, but he also couldn’t bring himself to book a hotel. “Figured I’d find someplace to stay when I got here,” he mumbles.

Napoleon shoots him a look that is incredulous and utterly amused. “You’ve never done that in your life.”

“How would you know that?” Illya retorts defiantly, even though Napoleon is entirely correct.

Napoleon snorts a laugh at him. “I know you. You plan everything within an inch of its life.”  
  
“I do not,” Illya grumbles.

“Aww, you’re so cute when you get defensive,” Napoleon coos, giving a yank on Illya’s hand to bring him closer so that he can lean in and give him a kiss on the cheek. This, of course, only serves to deepen the blush that has made itself quite welcome on Illya’s face. “So what you’re saying is that you’re staying with me?”

“I wouldn’t presume—” Illya begins, but Napoleon cuts him off.

“Presume all you like,” he says fondly. “I was going to be annoyed if you’d told me you booked a hotel room.”

Illya laughs softly and gives Napoleon’s hand a squeeze, wondering if it’s actually possible for his heart to burst from happiness. It certainly feels like it might.

He’s still staring at Napoleon with what is no doubt an utterly smitten expression on his face when Napoleon waves at someone approaching down the block. April, Illya remembers as he turns to see who it is; he might not have, he can be terrible with names, but she’s friends with one of his students so he’s met her a few times. He sees her eyes drop down to their linked hands and go slightly wide, and when she looks back up she appears to be fighting back a grin.

“Hey April,” Napoleon greets as they pause in front of each other. “Enjoying this fine spring day?”  
  
“Trying to make the most of it, between packing,” she answers. She glances at Illya, and the grin gains ground on her lips. “I didn’t realize you were coming to visit.”

“Neither did I,” Napoleon laughs, and it makes April’s eyebrows arc skyward.

Illya just shrugs. “Last minute decision. I heard you are coming to join us in Chicago?”

“I am,” she confirms, bobbing her head. “Looking forward to it.”

“Know where you’re living yet?” he asks.

“Actually, Mark’s roommate is moving out at the end of June, so I’m going to move in with him,” she answers.

“That’s good timing,” Napoleon remarks.

“Yeah,” April agrees. Her eyes slip toward their hands again seemingly of their own accord, before she snaps her gaze back up to their faces. “I should let you guys get going. It was good to see you again,” she tells Illya.

“And you,” he returns with a nod.

After they pass Illya watches Napoleon glance back and grin, and when he follows his gaze he sees April stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, furiously texting someone.

“I thinks she’s dishing on us to your student,” Napoleon chuckles.

Illya furrows his brow skeptically at this information. “Mark? Really?”  
  
“I’m 99% sure they’ve been gossiping about us since Toronto, Peril.” Napoleon looks thoughtful for a moment, tilting his head slightly. “Have you told anyone? About us?”

Illya shakes his head. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing to just announce to your colleagues out of the blue. ‘Hey, you know that guy we just hired? I’m dating him.’ Gaby had offered to spread it more quietly, but he hadn’t made up his mind yet. He figured that eventually the right time would come, maybe in a few weeks when Napoleon was scheduled to come visit to look at housing.

“Well, it’ll be all over the department by the time you get back,” Napoleon predicts. He hesitates, glancing at Illya out of the corner of his eye. “Hope that’s ok.”  
  
Illya squeezes his hand and gives him a small smile in reassurance. Sure, he might have preferred some other way than the departmental gossip mill, but if that’s how it was going to come out, then so be it. “They would have found out soon enough. I don’t care who knows or how they know it, Cowboy. I love you.”

The smile Napoleon gives him is brighter and more warming than the sun.

* * *

Illya would be lying if he said he didn’t have ulterior motives for this visit. Of course the main reason he’s there is to see Napoleon, and getting in a research side trip is an added bonus, but really, this is a test. They’ve never spent more than three days in one place together, and the times they have been together have been dogged by secrecy.

More than anything, Illya wanted to know what would happen when they share a living space. Would it all be a breeze, or would they want to kill each other by the end of the week? They’ve both lived alone for so long that it seems naive to imagine that there wouldn’t be some tension. Add in the stress of the end of the semester and Napoleon’s imminent move, and it becomes a recipe for a relationship trial-by-fire. Perhaps not Illya’s smartest idea, but…

Five days in, and it’s been _amazing_. More than he had hoped for, to be perfectly honest. They just seem to work together in a way that would be surprising, except it feels so natural. Just like the way they had started finishing each other’s sentences over the phone, they fill in the gaps in each other’s lives, like they’d been made especially to do so. That’s not to say there haven’t been squabbles, but they’ve been minor, and few and far between.

As far as Illya is concerned, the test has been passed. Which is at once exciting and also terrifying, because if he thought he would find reasons why he shouldn’t ask Napoleon to move in with him, he has utterly failed. On the contrary, now he wants it even more than he did before, which could be a big problem if Napoleon doesn’t feel the same way.

This was definitely not his smartest idea.

And yet, as he sits on the train on the way back from the city, covered in dust and grime from an exhausting day in the collections, all he can do is think about it. Reasons why he shouldn’t ask, and reasons why he should. The train trip is long enough that he feels like he’s considered every possible way to broach the subject, but he still hasn’t come to any kind of decision by the time he arrives back in New Haven.

There are soft sounds and mouth-watering smells filtering out of the kitchen when he lets himself into Napoleon’s condo and he smiles, allowing them to push the troublesome question out of his head. He drops his heavy camera bag in the entryway with a quiet thunk and kicks off his shoes before padding back to the kitchen. Napoleon is standing over the stove, wearing his ridiculous cowboy-print apron as he stirs something intently. He doesn’t turn when Illya steps up behind him and places his hands on his hips, ducking his head to press a kiss on the side of his neck, but Illya can see him smile.

“Welcome home, Peril,” Napoleon says without realizing what the simple phrase does to Illya’s insides. “Have a good day at the museum?”

“Mmm,” Illya hums, resting his chin on Napoleon’s shoulder. “Good, but exhausting.”

Napoleon turns his head to snag a brief kiss and his gaze drops to Illya’s clothes. “Ugh, you’re filthy. This is why I stick to books.”

“This is nothing,” Illya chuckles, drawing Napoleon closer. “You should see me after a day in the field.”

Napoleon pauses his stirring, like he’s now imagining this, and then his brow furrows in consternation. “I’m not sure if I’m disgusted or turned on by that image.”

“Knowing you, probably both.”

“Now you’re getting _me_ filthy with those grimy clothes,” Napoleon protests half-heartedly as Illya presses up against him, kissing his neck again.

Illya pauses, smirking. “You would prefer if I took them off?”

“Well yes, but no,” Napoleon answers, sighing. “I need to finish this if we’re going to eat dinner tonight.”

“Eating is overrated,” Illya says, but he disentangles himself all the same. He is, in fact, starving. As if to prove this point, his stomach growls, and Napoleon laughs at him.

“Go shower, and it’ll be ready when you get out.” He gives Illya’s butt a firm smack to send him along, but it only serves to raise a small cloud of dust. “Ok, maybe shouldn’t have done that,” he coughs.

Illya grins and goes to do as he was told, glancing back over his shoulder has he goes. Napoleon has returned his concentration to his pot, and the scene is so incredibly domestic it makes his heart ache with want. The idea of going home to his own, Napoleon-less apartment has become rather devastating.

He’s rapidly coming to the conclusion that this was either his best or very worst idea. Only time would tell.

* * *

“As you can see, this unit has simply stunning views of the lake and downtown,” the realtor says as she leads them into the condo. “Really, you’re lucky it’s on the market now, these are rare."

Napoleon hums in consideration as he strolls through the space, glancing at the shiny, stainless steel kitchen before wandering over to stand at the large, floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall. The lakefront condo is sleek and modern, not unlike his condo in New Haven, and perhaps a bit soulless for Illya’s taste. Not that Illya would say that.

“It is quite a view, don’t you think, Peril?” Napoleon asks.

“Impressive,” Illya allows, because it is. He knows a number of people who would kill for this view.

“I’d wager all these windows make it hard to keep warm in the winter, though. All that wind over the lake.”

A disappointed, resigned expression flits over the realtor’s face before she smiles again. “Well, these are all new units, and the weatherproofing is quite impressive. I can get you some figures on utilities, if that would help?”

“Sure,” Napoleon agrees amiably.

It doesn’t matter. At this point, the realtor knows, and Illya knows. He’s allowed himself to be dragged to every showing of apartments, houses, and condos that Napoleon’s realtor had arranged over the last two days, and Napoleon has found some deal-breaking fault with every single one of them. They’ve been as significant as major design flaws and direly-needed repairs, and as trivial as disliking the appliances. Illya isn’t really sure what Napoleon is looking for anymore, and he can tell the realtor isn’t either. This place seemed like it might be perfect, but apparently something is missing.

Illya doesn’t want to admit what he hopes it might be.

He’d considered broaching the subject of moving in together earlier, even before Napoleon’s visit, but the moment never seemed right. Every time they talked about housing Napoleon would launch into an update about the houses his realtor had arranged showings of, or spend long periods musing over where he might want to live. He sent Illya links to places he was considering and asked about different parts of Hyde Park. Nothing about what he was doing seemed to imply he was interested in anything but living alone.

And so Illya plays the part of the supportive boyfriend, giving his opinion when asked but otherwise mostly letting Napoleon annoy the realtor with his exacting standards and hoping that maybe he’ll see some sign that the reason for Napoleon’s somewhat uncharacteristic degree of pickiness has to do with Illya himself.

After a bit longer inspecting the condo that everyone knows Napoleon won’t put an offer on, they part from the realtor with a promise to contact her. Everyone also knows that there aren’t many more places in Napoleon’s price range that he could see, so if he’s going to pick some place he’s going to have to make a decision sooner than later. Perhaps it is time that Illya lay his own offer on the table.

Napoleon collapses dramatically on Illya’s couch when they get back to his apartment, throwing one arm over his face as he groans. “This is terrible,” he says, his voice muffled by his sleeve. “Sorry for dragging you to all these useless showings, Peril.”  
  
“Don’t worry about it,” Illya shrugs. “Surely there’s one you like enough?”

Napoleon pulls his arm half off his face and cocks a brow at Illya. “Would _you_ move into any of them?”  
  
It’s as close as he’s come to actually asking Illya to move with him, even though Illya knows he doesn’t mean it like that. At least, he thinks he knows. Surely he’s just talking abstractly.

“No,” Illya answers honestly. “I wouldn’t.”

The arm collapses back onto Napoleon’s face and makes his next statement barely intelligible. “If only I could find somewhere like this place.”

Illya knows his apartment is something of a rare treasure in Hyde Park. The building is relatively close to campus, yet hasn’t been bought up by one of the local apartment companies to be divided into smaller, piecemeal chunks more suited for undergrad housing. His landord is an old emertius faculty member who moved to the suburbs but kept the apartment, and it’s had a tradition of being passed on to new faculty whenever its current occupant moves along. The street is quiet, full of mostly one- and two-family homes full of other faculty and grad students, and Illya likes his immediate neighbors.

He’s sure that it is these desirable qualities that Napoleon is referring to with his comment, and yet…

“What if you didn’t have to?” Illya asks, forcing himself to say the words.

Napoleon withdraws his arm and props himself up on his elbows, brow furrowed as he looks at Illya. “What?”

Illya shrugs, trying to look as casual as possible, like what he’s about to say was something that just occured to him, rather than the thing that he’s been obsessing over for the past few weeks. “There’s another room upstairs, I mostly just use it for storage right now. Could be a nice home office.”

In reality, the room is basically empty now. It was theoretically a guest bedroom, but there wasn’t a bed in it and he never had guests anyway. Illya had cleaned it almost entirely out over the last two weeks, getting rid of things he didn’t need and relocating others. His own office is across the hall, although he’s just as likely to do his work on the couch as at his desk.

“Peril, are you…?” Napoleon trails off as he looks searchingly at Illya, his face full of surprise, uncertainty, and something like hope.

Right. Time for the big gesture. Illya steels himself and walks to the mantel over the fireplace, opening a small box there to pluck out the gold-toned key that lies within it. He’d had it cut when he returned from visiting Napoleon in New Haven; had told himself that it would useful regardless of whether or not he actually got up the courage to ask. He closes his fist around the key and tries to reassure himself that no matter what it will be ok. Even if Napoleon says no, they’ll be ok.

And then, suddenly, that message seems to sink in and all his nervousness melts away. Napoleon, on the other hand, looks like he’s almost vibrating as he scrambles to sit up straighter, watching Illya’s approach intently. The couch cushion dips under Illya’s weight and he presses his knee to Napoleon’s as he sits down next to his boyfriend. Looking into Napoleon’s face, he knows, then, without a doubt: it’s going to be better than ok.

“You don’t have to find someplace like this,” Illya says. “You could live here, if you want. Even if it’s just until you find a place you do like.”

Napoleon stares at him, wide-eyed, and Illya can tell he wants this _so bad_ but also can’t quite believe it’s happening. “Are you sure? This is your home, your space—”

“I am sure, Cowboy,” he interrupts. “I wanted this before I came to visit you, and after that week I was only more sure. My home is not a home without you in it.” Illya reaches out to pull one of Napoleon’s hands toward him and pushes the key into his palm. “Move in with me.”

Napoleon stares down at the shiny key for a moment, then looks back up at Illya and gives a short, emphatic nod, like he doesn’t quite trust himself to speak. Illya only manages to smile at him for a moment before Napoleon launches himself forward and into Illya’s arms, covering his face with enthusiastic kisses.

“God, Peril, I didn’t want to let myself even hope, but—” he says in a rush, shaking his head in disbelief. Huffing out a laugh, he looks down at the key in his hand again. “All those places we saw, something was missing, and I knew what it was but I didn’t want to say it.”  
  
Illya smirks at him. “Wish you had. Could have saved us a lot of time.”  
  
“Oh, like you have room to talk,” Napoleon scoffs and punches him lightly in the shoulder. “You let me drag you all over this neighborhood when you _clearly_ planned to ask me to move in with you from the beginning.”

“I wasn’t sure if you would think it was moving too fast,” Illya admits, his tone abruptly more uncertain.

Napoleon smiles softly, reaching up to cup Illya’s jaw with one hand. “After the last two years, I am more than ok with things moving a little fast.”

“Me too,” Illya murmurs.

He leans forward to capture Napoleon’s lips with his again, pulling him more fully into his lap as he does so. The sound of Napoleon’s soft moan is swallowed up as he pushes forward and braces his hands on either side of Illya’s head, pinning him quite effectively to the couch. They kiss for several long minutes, just enjoying each other, before Napoleon sits back slightly.

“You should probably call the realtor, let her know the bad news,” Illya points out as he runs his hands down Napoleon’s sides.

“Mmm,” Napoleon hums as he presses a final kiss to the angle of Illya’s jaw. “She’s gonna be pissed she wasted all this time showing us places.”

“Well,” Illya says without really thinking, “maybe in a few years when we want to upgrade we can give her a call.”

Almost immediately he regrets saying it, because there’s moving fast, and then there’s planning significant things they might do years in the future, like purchasing _real estate_ together. Which is a whole ‘nother level. His presumption doesn’t seem to ruffle Napoleon in the slightest, though; instead, he just nods like Illya had made a good point.

“She’ll make a bigger commission if we’re purchasing based on two salaries, anyway,” Napoleon agrees easily. He climbs off Illya’s lap and fishes his phone out of his pocket, tapping a few times to pull up the realtor’s number. “We should go out to dinner tonight,” he suggests before he dials. “You know, celebrate.”

“Sure thing, Cowboy,” Illya smiles broadly, letting all his unabashed joy shine through. “We haven’t been to La Petit Folie, yet. French bistro down by the lake?”  
  
Napoleon pauses on his way to the front window, hoping for better cell service to make his call, and turns a beaming smile back at Illya. “Sounds perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's almost over! It seems like this story has been in progress forever. The chapter after this is more of an epilogue, of sorts, wrapping some final things up and delivering more tooth-rotting fluff, in case you're not tired of it yet. I'm sad to be finishing this story up but at the same time it makes me so happy to see it all come together. Thank you once again for reading, everyone!


	11. Two Years Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are several momentous occasions.

_Ammor magnus doctor est._  
(Love is a great teacher)  
—St. Augustine

“Soooo I got an email from the provost this afternoon,” Napoleon says.

He’s perched on the top of the lab workbench, a little ways down from where Gaby is currently working, delicately piecing a pot back together from a previous field season. She makes no immediate sign that she’s paying attention to him, but he knows she’s listening; her earbuds are out, and the lab’s radio is turned way down so as to be barely audible. It’s become a habit of his, coming down here to bug her when he needs advice, or to talk something through, or just when he’s bored, and though she sometimes likes to pretend he’s a pest, he knows she enjoys the company.

“Stop fiddling with that,” she tells him absently without looking. Her brow is furrowed and her tongue sticks out just a bit from between her lips as she carefully places a tiny fragment with a pair of tweezers. Napoleon knows better than to speak until she’s done.

“I’m not fiddling,” he protests, but he puts the tool back down on the bench next to him. “Did you hear what I said?”  
  
“You got an email from the provost,” Gaby repeats. There’s a pause as she places another delicate fragment. “And?”

“And… she’s recommending my tenure and promotion. Just has to be approved by the president of the university.”

Gaby stops what she’s doing and puts down the tweezers, looking up at him with an expression of delight. “Napoleon, that’s great! Not surprising, but wonderful nonetheless.” There’s a beat, and she tips her head in confusion. “Why aren’t you more excited?”

“I am,” he insists. Without really meaning to, he’s picked up the tool again and started fiddling with it. “I mean, it’s an incredible relief. But it’s a little anticlimactic?”

She arcs one perfect brow at him. “What, did you want a confetti cannon?”

Napoleon huffs out a laugh at that, shaking his head a little. “ _No_ , I did not. It’s just. I don’t know.”

“Yeah, Illya said almost the same thing when he got his letter,” she says before she turns back to her work, but then she pauses. “Wait, have you told him?”

“Not yet,” he admits, biting his lower lip.

“Why the hell not?”

It’s not that he doesn’t want to. And really, Illya is going to be so happy for him that it will no doubt shake him out of whatever bizarre ennui he’s found himself in, so he should just do it, but…

“Don’t know that either,” Napoleon shrugs.

Gaby regards him shrewdly for a few long minutes, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips like she’s taking him apart in her head. “I think you do.”

Damn it, she knows him far too well. Napoleon sighs and just resists pushing a hand through his hair. “It’s just, well, now I’m officially here for good.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And I’ve been thinking a lot lately.”  
  
“Coulda fooled me,” she puts in sardonically.

Napoleon sticks his tongue out at her, which she definitely deserves. “About _us_. I’ve been thinking about us. About the future. And I… I want to marry him, Gaby,” he forces himself to admit. It feels weird, saying it out loud.

He thinks he’s known it for quite a while, though only really admitted it to himself when the looming tenure decision meant he was going to soon know whether he would be in Chicago for the long haul or not. The prospect—however slim it might be—that they might be forced to live apart again laid bare all kinds of little insecurities he didn’t even know he had about them. It’s not like he’s had the best track record with long term relationships, after all.

“But I don’t know if that’s what _he_ wants,” he plows on, all of his worries clumping together like snowballs rolling downhill, “or if he’s even thought about it, and it’s only been a little over two years—”

“You could just ask him, you know,” she breaks in, before he can ramble further. There is exasperation in her expression, yes, but also sympathy. “I thought you two had gotten better about talking about things.”

“ _Things_ , sure,” Napoleon allows, “even big things. We’ve been talking about buying a place, you know. But… not this.”

Gaby looks at him skeptically. “I hope this isn’t your way of asking me if he’s said anything about it to me.”

“Of course not,” he huffs.

“Good.” She stares at him for a minute, evaluating, then pushes herself out of her chair and goes over to give him a hug. “Go tell him about the tenure. Go celebrate, and don’t let your anxieties about relationships take over this, ok? It doesn’t have to all happen at once.”

“You’re right, of course you’re right,” he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face as he hops down off the workbench. “But if, totally hypothetically, I came to you later, you’d definitely help me pick out engagement rings, right?”

“Hypothetically, I would,” she assures him, even as she steers him bodily toward the door. “Now get out of here, I need to actually finish this today.”

“You’re the best, Gaby,” Napoleon calls as she shuts the door to the lab in his face, grinning despite himself.

He still doesn’t tell Illya right away, though.

Instead, he waits until they’re walking back to their apartment that afternoon. It’s a pleasant spring day; flowers are blooming, birds are singing, the wind is rustling the new foliage on the trees. Idyllic, even. This is his home now, in a way that no place has been since he left for college, which feels downright _weird_ , but also so right. He knows a large part of it is the man walking next to him.

“Got an email from the provost today,” he says casually. Illya stops dead in his tracks, and when Napoleon turns to look at him he’s _beaming_. How does he always seem to know everything? Napoleon narrows his eyes, trying to look skeptical. “Now, wait a minute, you don’t even know what it was about.”

“I know,” Illya insists.

“What if it said ‘no’?”

Illya shakes his head. “No way. Your tenure package was twice as good as mine.”

“That’s not even a little bit true,” Napoleon huffs. “Come on, are you just going to stand there in the middle of the sidewalk?”

“Until you say it,” Illya tells him. He folds his arms over his chest for emphasis, cocking a challenging eyebrow at Napoleon.

Napoleon takes a step closer, close enough that he has to tip his head up to look at Illya in the eye. “Thought you already knew?”

“Cowboy,” Illya warns.

Napoleon grins up at him. “Yes, Peril?” They stare at each other for another minute before Napoleon cracks. “Ok fine. They’re recommending me for tenure and promotion. Happy?”  
  
As an answer, Illya kisses him, unfolding his arms and sliding his hands around Napoleon’s waist to pull him closer. “Deliriously,” he murmurs against Napoleon’s lips.

Laughter bubbles up in Napoleon’s throat, and suddenly he knows without a doubt that _he_ is deliriously happy. The relief, the excitement, the joy, it all hits home like it hadn’t at that point. The future is at once secured and ripe with possibility; no more hurdles stand in their way, no more uncertainty. Professionally, at least. Napoleon takes Gaby’s advice and tries not to let anything else sneak its way into his thoughts.

“Can we go home now?” he asks, pulling on Illya’s shoulders. “What I want to do to you isn’t really appropriate for the sidewalk.”

Illya hums with poorly faked skepticism, but allows himself to be drawn forward, falling into step next to Napoleon. “As long as we don’t miss our reservation.”

“Reserv—,” Napoleon chokes, looking at him with wide eyes. “Peril, what are you talking about? How could you possibly have a reservation?”

A tiny smile curls its way onto Illya’s lips and he shrugs. “Just prepared.”  
  
“Did Gaby spill?”  
  
“Of course not, Cowboy,” Illya says. He lets Napoleon glare at him for a couple more minutes before his façade cracks. “There’s no reservation,” he admits. “Yet.”

Napoleon laughs again, bumping his shoulder against Illya’s. “You’re such a liar. Why do I hang out with you?”  
  
“You love me,” Illya answers, insufferably smug.

“Ugh, I do,” Napoleon grins, trying for exasperation and mostly failing miserably.

Something more serious flits over Illya’s face, so brief that Napoleon almost misses it. Then he’s smiling again, but all the smugness is gone. “Doesn’t mean I don’t have plans.”

“Do I get to know what they are?”

Illya glances at him, then stares fixedly ahead. “No.”

* * *

The plans turn out to include a rather lovely celebratory dinner at La Petit Folie, complete with a special dessert that Napoleon cannot figure out how Illya managed. It seems to be the same thing that they ate two years ago to celebrate their decision to move in together, and which Napoleon knows for a fact hasn’t been on the menu since. Napoleon knows this because he’d raved about said dessert, and then had been more than a little disappointed when it had seemingly disappeared. Illya, of course, refuses to give away any of his secrets.

Afterward they stroll down to the Point, hands linked together as they walk. Neither of them says much as they make their way out to the tip of the spit of land that projects into Lake Michigan, and Napoleon doesn’t know if this is still part of the plans or just an impulsive addition. The sun is dropping low behind them and the weather is still beautiful, so there are a lot of people around, but they find an area without clusters of college students having picnics and climb down onto the rocks1; until all they can see is the lake and the boulders and each other.

“How do you feel about Paris?” Illya asks, out of nowhere, when the sky is a medley of twilight purples and the sounds of people behind them have mostly faded away.

Napoleon blinks rapidly at the nonsequiter, turning to stare incredulously at his boyfriend. “You know how I feel about Paris.”

“For a honeymoon.”

For a moment, Napoleon is sure he didn’t hear that right. It’s simply not possible. Maybe Illya is speaking abstractly, or maybe someone _else_ is going on a honeymoon to Paris, and it’s just a topic of conversation, but they don’t know anyone getting married soon, do they? But the idea that Illya could be asking _him_ about potential honeymoon destinations— _that_ is preposterous.

“Of course there’s something to be said for going someplace you’ve never been before,” Illya continues, still staring out at the lake, like he hasn’t noticed Napoleon gaping at him. “I’ve always wanted to go to Australia.”

“Peril,” Napoleon chokes out, and his voice breaks on the second syllable. “What— what are you— _are_ you saying what I _think_ —?”

Napoleon watches as a tiny smile curls its way onto Illya’s lips. God, he loves that smile. When he sees it, when it’s just for him, it feels… undescribable; it feels like coming home.

Finally Illya moves, pushing forward off of the boulder and dropping down onto the rock below them. On one knee. He fishes something out of his pocket, and it’s— _fuck_ —a ring box. Napoleon knows his mouth is hanging open, like some kind of fish out of water, but he can’t seem to reign in his shock.

“Cowboy,” he says—and Christ, how is his voice so steady?—“Napoleon. I love you, so, so much. These past two years have been more amazing than I could have ever imagined. Being with you, it makes me unbelievably happy. And I never want that to end. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I’ve known since—since a long time.” As he’s speaking, his accent gets more prominent and his voice thickens with emotion, and finally, _finally_ , in the face of this, Napoleon finds it within him to compose himself at least a little bit. “I never thought marriage would be for— for me. For lots of reasons.” Illya swallows hard. “But this? I want this. If you’ll have me.”

“If I’ll—” Napoleon gasps, “If I’ll _have you_? Illya, there is nothing I want more. Nothing. I— I don’t know what else to say.”

Illya’s smile grows by degrees until it lights up his face like a beacon. He looks down briefly, at the box still clutched in his hand, and pops it open to reveal two bands within it. “Say you’ll marry me?”

“Oh, Peril,” Napoleon says, half a laugh, half a sigh, “yes, yes, of course I will. Come here.”

Napoleon grabs Illya by the front of his blazer, pulling him back onto the rock next to him and into a joyful, breathless kiss. It still seems so unreal, like this is a dream and is going to wake up at any moment, but the brisk wind picking up off the lake and the chill of stone seeping through his pants and the blistering warmth of Illya’s lips on his say that it’s _not_.

After a moment Illya pulls back a bit and, right, there are _rings_. They are clearly custom made, one a shiny yellow gold and the other dark, like an ancient oxidized bronze that’s just been dug out of the sea. Both are engraved with a distinctive pattern, and it takes Napoleon a moment but then he recognizes it with a start.

“It’s the motif,” Illya says, plucking the gold ring out of the box with trembling hand, “from the amphora…”

“That you invited me to work on,” Napoleon finishes, awestruck. “Our first collaboration.”

Illya nods as he slides the ring onto Napoleon’s finger. “Seemed appropriate. Gaby helped—”

“Ughhh, she _knew_ ,” Napoleon groans immediately, tipping his head back to the sky. “And she let me just…” He trails off, grumbling. Of course he wouldn’t have wanted her to ruin the surprise, but _still_.

“Cowboy, what…?” There is concern and confusion in Illya’s voice, and his hand tightens where it still holds Napoleon’s.

Which obviously cannot stand. No, no, there can be no worry in this moment, of all moments. Napoleon snaps his attention back to the man in front of him, squeezing his hand as he tries to laugh it off. “Oh, nothing. I was just talking to her earlier, and— you know what? It’s not important,” he says, shaking his head. He extracts the ring box from Illya’s hand and pulls the other ring from it, then slips the band onto Illya’s finger. “This is,” he adds softly.

Illya pulls him into another kiss, tender and unhurried, and eventually Napoleon’s face ends up pressed into Illya’s neck, smearing tears he didn’t even know he’d shed into the warm skin there. Illya’s strong arms are wrapped around him, holding him close, and Napoleon thinks that maybe they’ll just stay like this forever. Except of course that it’s nearly pitch dark by now, and the temperature has dropped enough that a shiver makes its way through his body. Illya’s embrace tightens around him, and in that moment Napoleon remembers that wonderful, terrible night in New York.

“Paris,” he murmurs. Illya pulls back slightly, then, just enough to look into Napoleon’s eyes. “We can still go to Australia sometime,” Napoleon offers, a lopsided smile on his lips, “but for this? For us… Paris, I think.”

Illya pulls him back into an embrace, pressing a kiss to Napoleon’s temple, and Napoleon can feel him smile into it. “Yes,” he whispers. “I thought so.”  
  


* * *

**SCS Conference, San Diego, January**

Illya hears him before he sees him.

Napoleon’s voice has always carried, which, as it turns out, can be useful when Illya happens to lose track of him amidst the bustle of conference-goers. Gone is the fake laugh, though, banished with the tight, disingenous smiles and the rest of the armor that he used to put on for every conference. He hasn’t worn any of it for a couple of years, now.

He still often gets surrounded by groups of doe-eyed students, and when Illya enters the hotel lobby he finds that this is currently the case this time, too. Now, though, Illya just looks smugly on—and keeps far enough away that Napoleon can’t rope him into the conversation, as he’s taken to doing sometimes. Napoleon’s talk had been that morning, which meant getting dragged into the discussion was even more likely given that Illya’s own research had featured prominently. Eventually Napoleon will extract himself and they’ll find Gaby so they can go to lunch, but for now he just waits patiently.

“Tenure suits him,” says a familiar voice.

Illya glances behind him and sees Ana approaching, a warm smile on her face. She stops by his side, looking off across the room toward where Napoleon stands.

“Doesn’t it for most of us?” Illya replies, cocking an eyebrow.

This draws a chuckle from her, and she glances at him with a knowing smile on her face. “True enough. I heard there might be another reason for congratulations, though,” she says, her eyes dropping pointedly to the ring on his finger. “For both of you.”

“News travels fast,” Illya says, his lips twisting into a wry smile. He knows the rumor mill is, well, _robust_ , but it’s still the first day of the meetings.

Ana just smirks at him. “Well, it doesn’t hurt that he can’t help but show off his ring to anyone that he spends more than five minutes talking to. Oh, he tries to keep it professional,” she adds in response to his incredulous look. “Just using the engraved motif as an example from his research, of course.”

As if on cue, Napoleon stretches out his hand with the ring toward the students, using the other to point out the motif without missing a beat of whatever he’d been saying. All while Illya looks on in something like horror. It’s not that it bothers him that people know, but, well, he’s always been a pretty private person, and that seems a bit much, even for Napoleon.

Then, Napoleon glances up, looking directly at him from across the lobby, and winks.

“Oh, Cowboy,” he mutters, dropping his face into his palm.

Next to him, Ana is very politely trying not to laugh. “I suppose the engraving was his idea?”

“No,” Illya sighs heavily, “it was mine.”

Ana pats his arm comfortingly. “Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll get bored of talking about it eventually.”

Illya is not so sure of that fact, actually, but he doesn’t say it. He watches as Napoleon finally excuses himself from the group of students, leaving them chatting amongst themselves as he makes his way across the lobby toward where Illya and Ana stand.

“Guess I was right about that collaboration, though, huh?” she says as she grins up at Illya.

“You were right,” he grudgingly admits, but he can’t help the smile that curls his lips.

“Right about what?” Napoleon asks when he arrives, looking back and forth between them before settling on Ana.

“Oh, nothing much,” she says, waving it off dismissively. “Just a little prediction I made five years ago. Wonderful talk this morning, by the way.”  
  
For a moment Napoleon looks like he’s going to press the matter, but then he just smiles. “Thanks! Of course I couldn’t have done all that without this guy,” he says, nodding at Illya. Then he leans toward Ana conspiratorially, and adds, _sotto voce_ , “did you see his ring?”

“Cowboy,” Illya groans as Ana nods, laughing, and Napoleon looks up at him with his most guileless expression.

“What?”

Illya rolls his eyes and sighs longsufferingly. “Let’s get lunch.”

“Of course, Peril,” Napoleon grins before bouncing up on the balls of his feet to press a kiss into Illya’s cheek. Of course he does. Then he turns back to Ana with a nod. “Good to see you again, Ana.”

“You too, guys. My congratulations to the both of you.” She pauses, looking thoughtful for a moment. “You know, it gives me some hope for the field. Not that I think all professional feuds should end in marriage.”

“Probably not,” Napoleon laughs, glancing up at Illya, and his gaze is full of so much warmth and affection it makes his breath catch in his throat. Still, after all these years. “But, for my part, at least, I can highly recommend it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. [A view of the rocks](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Promontory_Point_\(Chicago\)#/media/File:Promontory_Point_from_south.jpg) where Napoleon & Illya sit at Promontory Point in Chicago.[return to text]
> 
> \-------
> 
> OMG IT'S DONE.
> 
> I kinda can't believe it? It seems like I started writing this ages ago, though I suppose it hasn't been that long really. Thank you so so much for everyone who has seen this story through its ups and downs, through the angst and the tragedy, and who has endulged me this very personal AU. Your comments have meant the world to me; I am so happy that the story touched you. And if you've read all the way through, I'd love to hear what you thought, no matter if you previously left a comment or not! Thank you thank you once again, and know that I'm far from done writing in this fandom (or writing AUs for these boys). And there might even be a short little follow-up to this work, too, because I cannot resist.


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